Star of the Morning
by blinkblink
Summary: Castiel, removed from his host, is forced to make a temporarily substitution. Dean is so not onboard with this plan. Post The Rapture, AU. No pairings; rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural or the characters. Except the OCs. Which no one wants anyway.

Notes: I could say the timeline in this is tricky, or be fairer and say it's just really self-indulgent. It's set pretty soon after The Rapture, but ignores the Vampire-Sam arc and is therefore bizarrely AU.

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The funny thing about it, when Dean looks back on it later – funny in the bang your head against the wall kind of way – is that there isn't even a reason for Castiel to be there. It's not a seal. It's not even a hunt, really. It's just Dean and Sam, good Samaritans at large, checking up on a rumour of a haunted barn in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.

Turns out the barn is the local chapter of Demons Anonymous, and whoever sent them out on the goose chase was almost certainly in on it in on it, in a "ice = almost certainly cold" kind of way. And all just because some would-be big-shot wanted to have a chat with Sammy around a nice homey fire. Things get ugly real quick, but they get a hell of a lot uglier when the big-shot produces a pack of underlings. Which is when Castiel shows up out of nowhere to barrel into a couple of demons almost a foot taller than him. Unfortunately, it's also just about then that Sam gets thrown through a wooden pillar and ends up sprawled in a confused heap on the rough floor, while another bastard drops down out of the rafters – seriously, what the hell? – to tackle Dean to the floor and press a knife to his throat. From the way he's pressing the blade good and tight against the skin, it's apparent he's not going to be too bummed out if he nicks something vital.

Castiel turns towards him, giving a perfect opportunity to the demon behind him to nail him with the mallet it's swinging. It does, and Castiel goes down. He's picking himself up again almost instantly, of course, but it slows him down enough for the bastard with the knife to jerk Dean's head up, conveniently baring more of his throat. Castiel pauses, with the last two demons circling around to hold him down on his knees. The boss, as far as Dean can tell, steps out from the shadows, holding a cattle brand in one hand. The end, a convoluted circle, is red hot.

"Now, Sam and I need to have a little chat," he says to Castiel, who watches him flatly. "And while I'm happy to keep Dean here as a guarantee of his good conduct, I don't need any choirboys hanging around to go squealing to Daddy. So you're going to take off and leave your host behind to keep you from popping back in again, or my boy there will slit little Dean's throat."

The hand in his hair twists and grasps hard enough to bring tears to Dean's eyes as his head is yanked back even further. He knows from the pain at his throat that the knife's already drawn blood.

"You need him," says Castiel gruffly. "You won't kill him."

"He's an aid, not a necessity. And I'd get a hefty prize for sending him back downstairs. He's got plenty of friends waiting for him."

"He was raised once. He can be raised again."

"You guys wanna stop tossing be back and forth like a damn baseball?" Dean's quip ends in a "herk" sound as his hair is pulled for good measure.

"True enough," says the demon, ignoring him completely. "But you're on a deadline. You had it easy before; no one thought Dean was going anywhere. How long do you think it'll take you to find him this time, with all of Hell working to hide him?" The demon, possessing a porcine man with a flabby red face, laughs thickly. "No, you'd better get out of Dodge, or lose your precious little pawn. And don't think about smiting us on the way out, you know you'd level him along with us." He gestures to Dean with the iron.

Castiel is almost glaring, a real achievement for him. Dean can't enjoy it properly, though, because he can feel the first rasps of the blade over his windpipe. He knows he doesn't make a sound, but Cas seems to hear anyway, sharp eyes focusing on him. The angels sighs.

"Close your eyes," he says, quietly, words directed to Dean alone. He does so – the demons, quicker on the uptake than some of their kin, do as well – and then there is a flash of light that sears even through his eyelids. And then, the sound of fabric tearing, and a scream.

Before he even opens his eyes, Dean is moving, is slamming his arm against the hand holding the knife at his throat while he jerks his other elbow back into the demon's gut. It's enough time to get at his knife, and the fight ends then and there.

On the other side of the room, Sam's standing crookedly against a wall, while on the ground two demons return to Hell. The third, still holding the cattle brand, takes one look at Sam's already raised hand and flees in a cloud of black smoke. And, on the ground between them, Jimmy lies rocking on his side, coats torn up the back from hem to collar.

Dean gets there first, puts a hand on the man's arm to hold him still, and pulls aside the strips of cloth. On his lower back a bloody mark has been burned into the flesh there, leaving it red and wet and weeping, symbol the mirror of the branding iron. Dean doesn't recognize it, but it's definitely an occult sigil. Jimmy's keening quietly, muscles and tendons tense as stone under his skin. Sam staggers over to glance down at the mark.

"Shit," he says, quietly.

"You recognize it?" asks Dean, looking up at him.

"No; it's nothing standard."

Dean nods; that he knew already. "Alright, let's get the hell out of here. Jimmy, can you walk? C'mon." He drags the man to his feet by his arms, throws one over his shoulder and leads the man outside. Sam grabs the iron, and follows.

There's not much in the way of first aid for this kind of burn in the trunk, not for something already charred black at the edges with glints of shiny red peeking out from under cracks, but Dean pulls out a couple of ice packs from a tiny cooler and hands them to Jimmy, who drops them. While Sam takes the iron over to the nearest puddle to try to cool it enough for transport, Dean helps the man into the back seat and, when he's as close to horizontal as he can get, pulls the clothes away and presses the ice against the burned skin. Jimmy screams, back arching as if shocked, and then subsides into rough gasping. Dean waits for him to calm some more before reaching around to grab the man's right arm.

"You need to hold the ice on, okay? You hear me, Jimmy? Sam and I'll be up front, you've got to hold the ice on."

Jimmy moans, but his arm tenses enough to keep the ice from sliding off.

"That's right. Stiller you keep it, the less it'll hurt."

He backs out of the door and closes it, to find Sam coming over with the now-grey iron.

"Cold?"

"Good enough." He drops it in the trunk and slams it shut.

"Good. Let's go."

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They're about 20 miles gone when the car starts to shudder, windows shivering in their frames, metal humming. Dean glances automatically at the dash, but there's nothing wrong there, full tank, cool engine, no lights.

"Stop the car," slurs Jimmy from the backseat through clenched teeth, the first thing he's said, causing Dean to jump. The wheel's beginning to buck under his hands, though, so he does as he's told and jerks the Impala over onto the uneven shoulder. Jimmy's out of the car almost before it stops, stumbling unevenly down the shallow incline into the field beside it in a gait which suggests its mostly his momentum keeping him on his feet. The shuddering ceases almost as soon as he leaves.

The field lies fallow now, winter snow having just finished melting to leave them wet and muddy; in the grey afternoon light it is bland and gloomy. Corn was clearly grown the year before, the stalks now chopped off less than a foot above the uneven earth, remnants sticking up like a thousand tiny spears. Jimmy staggers between them, walking in small, stiff movements as though both legs were in casts, his rent coat blowing out like wings behind him. He stops several yards into the mud.

Dean and Sam are out of the car by this point, watching from the edge of the road as the man sets his shoulders and stares up into the cloudy sky. There is no shaft of light, no shower of gold. There _is_ a sound like a sky full of starlings, like electricity humming in wires, like a circuit on overload. The windows of the Impala shiver slightly; Dean flinches. But Jimmy's just staring up at the sky and, occasionally, nodding. After a minute he turns back, and returns slowly through the field, face a mask of pain and determination. The slope at the edge of the road stalls him, feet slipping on wet mud, and Dean reaches out to pull him up to level ground.

"Castiel says he can't come back. The seal's blocking him." The words come thickly, as though he has to concentrate on not biting his tongue. Probably he does.

"So?" asks Dean, raising his eyebrows.

Jimmy looks up at the sky. The answer comes in a sound like a stereo overloading. The windows hum like bees, and both brothers slap their hands over their ears.

"Turn it down, Cas!" bellows Dean, wincing. Jimmy's face twists from pained to afraid.

"He says there aren't many people compatible enough to be vessels, and not many of them would agree to become one anyway," pours out Jimmy, in a quick, distracted tone, hurrying through the message. He turns back to the sky as soon as he's done. "Castiel, please, not –"

Only a brief rattle this time, but Jimmy relaxes, shoulders dropping and causing him to wince.

"What?" barks Dean. Jimmy shakes his head.

"Nothing."

Dean gives him a sceptical look, but continues anyway. "So, Cas can't find a new host?"

"He says it'll take time."

"How much time are we talking about there? 'Just going out for a drink, back in a minute,' kind of time, or 'tell the grandkids to keep an eye out for me' kind of time?"

Jimmy glances up; both brothers wince pre-emptively.

"He's not sure," is the answer. "But he thinks weeks rather than days. Months, maybe."

"Great. Because we totally have that kind of time to spare," says Dean, throwing up his hands. But Sam, who never takes off his thinking cap, comes up beside him and says quietly:

"He has a plan, doesn't he?"

"Yes," says Jimmy, glancing from Dean to his brother and back again. "But he doesn't think you're going to like it."

"That sounds promising," growls Dean. "What is it?"

Jimmy looks up, then struggles back out into the field, a lone man in a dirty trench coat standing against a bleak horizon. He's gone several minutes this time. When he comes back, he's looking at Dean.

"What?" says Dean, defensively, shifting his weight.

"He says," relays Jimmy, coming to stand next to the elder hunter, "he can erase the seal so that he can use me as a vessel again. But to do it, he needs a temporary host."

"Oh, no," begins Dean.

"He says it shouldn't take too long, and besides, it won't be like –" Jimmy pauses slightly, then continues in a duller tone, "won't be like a regular possession. You're not very compatible, so he won't be able to use most of his power. You'll still be in control, he'll just be there too."

"No way," says Dean, immediately. "So much no. This is off the _scale_ of no."

"I'll do it," says Sam gruffly, and Dean swivels to glare at his idiot brother.

"What the hell, man, you _want_ to be possessed?"

Sam raises his eyebrows in a classic _you have a better plan?_ expression. Jimmy cuts in before Dean is required to beat some sense into his brother.

"It doesn't matter. Castiel says it can't be you. Says your blood makes it an impossibility."

Dean doesn't have to be watching for it to see Sam's shields drop like curtain, revealing the stark _hurt_ beneath; it's clear as day. Dean steps into the gap to deflect attention, not the least his own.

"So tell him to find someone else. If it doesn't need to be someone who's on Heaven's Christmas list, then he's got thousands to choose from."

"And of those thousands, how many would agree to it? Angels don't take unwilling hosts, and they don't sugar coat the truth. Much," Jimmy adds, with just a trace of bitterness.

"Damn straight," says Dean. "You'd have to be an idiot to agree. No offense," he says, with a shrug.

"Look," snaps Jimmy, in the first hint of anger they've ever seen in him, "I don't want to go back to it. On my list of a thousand things I don't want to happen, going back to being Castiel's vessel's right down at the bottom. But you know what's under it? _Seeing everyone I know die_. I'm not going to pretend to know a lot about what's going on, but I know we need every weapon we've got to stop what's coming. We can lose one for weeks – months – and maybe for all I know lose the war, or you can just suck it up and be a temporary host for a couple of hours, a few days." Jimmy's one of the meekest men Dean's ever met, but when he finishes his eyes are bright with just a hint of the strength the hunter is used to seeing in Castiel. Maybe it's the pain, but Dean doesn't think so.

He bridles regardless – he's lived through too many years of shit not to. "Don't you dare tell me I haven't given enough," he begins, which gets out enough of his righteous fury to let him think straight. He cuts himself off roughly, and turns to stare out over the fields. "How long is temporary," he asks, gruffly.

"He doesn't know. He can't get near me to find out without a vessel."

Dean sighs, and turns back. "Fine. But only if he swears to get the hell out if I tell him to."

Castiel may be nothing like Dean imagined an angel to be before he met one – albeit since he stopped imagining them after the age of 7 they were mostly white and fluffy and blond in his head – but he has always kept what few promises he's made.

Jimmy glances at the sky; the brief whine is over almost before it begins. "He agrees."

"Great." Dean spreads out his arms. "Then, beam me up, or whatever." Behind him, he hears Jimmy grab Sam and pull him away behind the shelter of the Impala.

It starts out like a sunrise, the glow weak and warm on his skin. But it brightens exponentially, soon reaching the strength of the noonday sun in a clear midsummer sky. And it grows brighter still, brighter than a spotlight in his face, brighter than lightning, brighter than the fiery corona of the sun. Dean staggers, wrapping both arms over his face, trying to block out the blinding light. The fear of that light, of scorched eye sockets, nearly overshadows the feeling like something's being poured into him through a funnel.

It ends abruptly, a switch turning off, leaving Dean on his knees in the muddy gravel. He feels something like dizziness, but more like confusion. Like he has two sets of hands and feet, and isn't sure which he needs to be moving. That, and a warm weight in the back of his mind, are the only differences.

He stands slowly, finding his feet by trial and error, and as he figures which limbs are real his perception of the others vanish, until he feels nearly normal again.

"Dean?" says Sam, from somewhere to his left. "Dean, are you okay?"

"I'm … not sure," he says. And then, narrowing his eyes, "Castiel?"

_Yes_, says a voice, says his, Dean's, voice, right behind him. Dean jumps, and swivels to look behind him. Sam is there, looking startled and worried. Behind him, Jimmy is leaning against the Impala's hood, looking only slightly interested.

"Uh, so, you're here."

_Yes. You needn't be concerned, Dean. I won't assert control. I won't intrude_. Maybe it's just that the angel's not used to his voice; maybe it's just that _he's_ not used to his voice, but the angel sounds coldly unamused by the whole situation.

He knows he's never sounded like such a stuck-up bastard before. He tries to hold on to that thought, rather than the one that's railing against ever instinct his father ever pounded into him, _oh god there's something in me there's something in me there's something in me_.

"I'm so reassured," he hisses. But… it's true. He can _feel _the truth of it, like a tangible object. Feel the angel's strength held in careful, absolute check. Like having a tiger drooling on the back of his neck, and knowing it can't break its chain to bite him. Safety that, nevertheless, feels _really dangerous._

"Dean?" says Sam again.

"Uh, he's here."

"And you're okay?" says Sam, slowly, as if talking to a shock victim. Dean's not so sure that's a bad assessment.

"At the moment, apart from having an angel in my head," he says with bright sarcasm. He tries to turn to look at Cas, confusing physical and mental again. "How long're you staying?" he asks the Impala.

_That depends on the seal._

"Right," says Dean forcing himself not to shiver at the voice _inside his head – get it out! – _and looks at Jimmy. "Let's see it."

Jimmy walks over and stops when he's passed Dean, then reaches back to gently part his torn clothes to reveal the charred, blackened skin below. Dean's teeth grind together instinctively. There's a slight pressure on his shoulders, as though someone is standing behind him, leaning on them. Dean finds himself leaning back to compensate.

_Touch it_, says the angel, flatly.

That seems like a bad idea, but whatever the hell gets Castiel out of his head soonest. He reaches out a hesitant hand and brushes his fingers against the raised skin. It's like pressing them against a hot element. "_Fuck_," he snarls, waving his hand to cool it. In his head, he feels Castiel recoiling, feels a rolling pressure against the far borders of his mind as the angel retreats from the sigil. "I'm guessing that's not good?"

_It is unusual, but not unexpected. I apologize._

"Can you fix it?" He'd sure as hell better be able to. Better be able to do it right the fuck now.

_Hold up your hand again, close without contact._

Jimmy's glaring over his shoulder now, face pale and drawn. Dean raises his hand again, slower this time, and lets it hover just above the burnt skin.

There's a feeling, like warmth flowing in a thick river, like heat rolling over sand dunes, like a blazing fire on a cold winter's night. It rolls slow and lumbering down his arm and spreads through his palm to his fingers. Dean's surprised, when he glances at his hand, to find that it looks the same as always.

On Jimmy's back, the worst of the black char turns in on itself, like paper burning away into nothing. Some of the flesh knits back together in an angry red mark. It's quite a lot like watching a time-lapse video in reverse. A little of the tension seeps out of Jimmy's ramrod straight form, and he lets out his breath through his teeth in a long hiss.

But the warmth only lasts until the black is gone, and then fades away to nothing, leaving Dean cold and shaking. Trembling.

"Why'd you stop?" he says, but the answer is there in his uneven voice, in the knocking of his knees. He takes a couple of steps back to lean against the Impala, Sam hovering at his side watching him with concern.

"Dean? You okay?"

"Fine," he hisses, even as Castiel answers.

_We're not very compatible, Dean. Even projecting a relatively small amount of my power through you is difficult for both of us._

There's no change in the emotionless tone of the angel's voice, but the tiger seems much further away now, the pressure at the back of his mind much lighter.

"So how long'll it take?"

Judging from the questioning look Jimmy's giving him as he gingerly drops his shirt back, he's not the only one wondering.

_Perhaps a week. Perhaps less, if you learn to adapt to me_.

"A week," says Dean, to the others. Sam shrugs in blank acceptance of the fact, Jimmy sighs; Dean can't tell if he's pleased or disappointed.

"Alright, then, you can take off now. Come back when we're up to it again."

_No. Repeated coming and going, apart from quite probably drawing unwanted attention, would possibly be harmful to you._

"Possibly?" says Dean, to cover the painful churning in his gut. To cover his concern. Concern. Not panic. Definitely not.

_You are fine,_ says Castiel in his voice – in him, using him, _being_ him.

"Dean?" says Sam, breaking in.

"He's going to hang around," relates Dean tersely.

"Uh, good. But, we should really get going. We're not exactly inconspicuous out here."

He's right. It's a quiet road, but there aren't many leading away from the old barn, and anyone trying to track them down from there won't have a hard time of it.

"Fine," says Dean, and grabs the door handle. And then, to the back of his head, "Don't talk to me while I'm driving."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: I don't want to make any promises about updates, because everyone knows how that always ends, but this is banging along pretty fast. I'm hoping to keep updating every four or five days. Predicting maybe seven chapters, give or take?

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Castiel is quiet on the drive, as per orders. Sam keeps giving him funny looks. Jimmy lies on his stomach and hisses when they hit uneven patches. It's awkward. But not as awkward as the motel.

They drive for a couple of hours and smear their tracks by changing roads and directions nearly every time they come to a major crossroads. They end up on the western border of Mississippi at what's not much more than a truck stop. Dean, currently the only one who can walk straight, gets out to book rooms. And therein lies the problem. Rooms, plural. None of them is fit to be bunking on the floor, and he's sure not sharing a bed with Sam – that's _so _elementary school. Either of them sharing with Jimmy is out of the question entirely, logically because with the man's back that's a danger, but realistically because neither of them could share with a stranger. At least, not one without a skirt. Dean winces at the image, and then further because _he has an angel in his head_. Castiel's never had a problem reading his thoughts, even when he wasn't in Dean's head.

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose, and walks back to the car for the argument he knows is coming.

It's Sam, of course. Jimmy's too out of it to care, and even if he weren't, he wouldn't. But even with everything that's happened, Sam's still way too into sharing and caring for Dean's taste.

"You shouldn't be alone," says Sam heatedly, arms crossed, leaning back against the Impala.

"Fine, I'll bunk with Jimmy," returns Dean with unusual agreeability.

"That's not what I meant."

"Well one of us has to. The man can't look after himself normally, never mind now."

"I just –"

"Dude, I'm all angeled up. I don't think it gets much safer than that. So you gonna share, or am I?" He's so done with this conversation, was done with it _years ago_.

Sam glares, but says, "Fine." He had this lost before it was started, and they both know it. Still, no Winchester has ever given up fighting a losing battle. Which is pretty much why they're in this mess in the first place.

"Okay then. Bring the stuff." He opens the back door and fishes Jimmy out, the combination of Castiel's minor assistance and several hours of rest having helped the man, who although still walking stiffly, can get around without the clockwork movements. Dean locks up while Sam carries the packs over to the motel. They've got adjoining rooms, at least.

Dean stopped noticing furnishings years ago, all he sees is two beds and an absence of danger. Jimmy pads over to the nearest one and collapses face-down on it, not bothering to kick off his shoes. He is, however, careful to keep the fabric of his clothes off his lower back. Dean bandaged the burn up once they'd gotten further away from the barn, smeared it with what cream they had and covered it carefully with gauze to keep out infection while Sam went out to get dinner for the road, but even the weight of clothes is doubtless still excruciating.

In Dean's head, Castiel stirs just slightly. Dean stiffens but doesn't freeze. He does startle though, just a little, when Sam comes up behind him to hand him his bag. He covers it with a cough.

"Seriously, Dean, maybe I should hang around for a while."

"I'm fine," growls Dean, gruffly.

"But –"

"Fine!" he repeats. "Enough with the hovering; you're practically clucking!" He mastered the _this conversation is over _tone a long time ago. It was always a favourite of Dad's.

Sam backs off, raising his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! I guess… bang on the wall if you need anything." He nods at the wall connecting their rooms.

"Yeah, sure." Dean shoulders his bag, and walks out. He hears Sam lock the door behind him.

Dean steps into his own room and shuts and locks the door, stands there leaning against the cool wood for a minute. Then he strides into the room, drops his bag on the bed, and begins to sort through it.

"So," he says, conversationally. "You're in my head."

There's a pause, a slight sensation of stretching, and then _Yes,_ says his own voice.

"Well, if you're gonna stay there, d'you think you could start talking with your regular voice? It's kind of creepy holding conversations with myself."

_My voice would rupture your eardrums, Dean_.

Dean flinches slightly, just a twitch of the eye, at the memory of shattered glass, of bloody ears. "Not that one. The – Jimmy's voice, I guess." Now that he says it, it sounds stupid. But that's never stopped him before.

Castiel is quiet for a while, maybe thinking, maybe just not paying attention. But when he speaks again, it's in Jimmy's gruff tones.

_Better?_

Dean can hear the disapproval. This would have been so much easier if it had happened _before_ Castiel's trip to Angel Brainwashing Camp.

"Kind of," says Dean, weighing the creepiness factor of his own voice talking back to him in his head, versus someone else's. Really, it's just replacing one bad scenario with another – _I'm becoming something else _to _something else is becoming me_. It's not panic – he still trusts Castiel enough to reign in his fears – but it's sure as hell not comfortable. He finds what he's looking for in his bag – his sleeping shirt – and drops it onto the floor. Sits down, idly turning the worn fabric over in his hands.

_I regret the necessity of this, Dean_, says the angel, eventually.

"Yeah, well, you were saving my bacon. I can't really complain." A better answer than, _do you regret it because it's uncomfortable for me, or for _you_?_

_Nevertheless, although you agreed, it was under duress_.

That hits a nerve, one contact with the angels has been slowly uncovering. "You know, the fact that you knew that, and accepted anyway kinda makes me wonder how many of your guys' vessels really were willing, and how many had their arms twisted."

There's a heavier shift, a feeling like something rolling over inside of him.

_We do what we must in difficult times_, rumbles Castiel, with a little less irritation than Dean was expecting. _But we do not threaten, and we do not contend refusals._

"Bull. You did both to me."

_You're special._

"I'm getting really tired of hearing that," snarls Dean, standing abruptly.

_It's a gift_.

"It's a fucking _curse_!"

_They're not mutually exclusive concepts_, says Castiel gruffly.

"You need to get a new dictionary, Cas, because in mine they _really are_!" He storms into the bathroom, stares at his flushed face in the mirror.

"Are you watching me? Right now?"

_Only through your eyes_, says the angel, a cryptic answer in a straightforward tone.

"Well, don't," says Dean, and turns on the shower.

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The shower isn't refreshing. It's not so much concern that Castiel might be watching him – he's an angel for Chrissakes, he must've seen plenty of naked men, even if Jimmy doesn't appear to have changed clothes once since they met him, and anyway angels aren't even interested in sex, almost certainly – as the situation in general. Dean doubts sleep will help, but it's better than standing around _thinking_, so he just washes off the sweat and sluices some water through his hair, and gets out.

Castiel is silent as he gets into bed, turns the light out from a handy bedside switch. Dean wonders, fleetingly, whether the angel's ever slept. He doesn't really care.

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His lungs are burning. They're black with smoke – every time he coughs his hand comes away covered with black sludge. The ground is a sea of flames; the flesh burned off his feet a long time ago, leaving just charred bones. Each step, each movement, each shift in his weight is excruciating, is agony, but it's nothing to the whips, the whips of white-hot metal flailing the skin off his back, and Dean screams and screams and screams and –

_Dean_, shouts a voice, echoing through the caverns with the clarity of a trumpet's call, _Dean, wake up!_

Dean starts awake, covered in sweat and panting like he's run a marathon, with the scent of brimstone still thick in his head. The blankets are stifling and he throws them off so fast he rips the threadbare sheet. Lies on his side while his sweat cools on his skin and tries to slow his breathing.

"Cas," he says eventually, voice closer to breaking than he likes. He covers it by compensating too far in the other direction, thick and harsh. "You woke me up?"

A shift – the angel stretching? – and Cas answers, _Yes._

Dean laughs shakily. "What, you couldn't just wave a hand and make it go away?"

It's happened before. The dreams stopping just as they start, or fading into calm nothingness before they wake him. Whether it's been angelic interference or simply his own psyche working to protect him he doesn't know, and in just this one matter hasn't had the strength to look a gift horse in the mouth.

_Not here,_ says the angel.

"You keep saying that," says Dean, eager to talk about anything other than the dreams, than the fire, than the Pit. "What do you mean?"

There's that rolling sensation again, Cas unfolding himself from the corner he's been sitting in. Although Dean's getting cold without the blankets, he suddenly feels a surge of warmth.

_Simply that I can extend only a small amount of my power through you, as I said before. More might harm you. It means that I'm limited in my actions, much more than even with a full vessel._

"Right," says Dean, meaning _what?_

There's a sound almost like a sigh, but the angel continues. _I can't stretch myself beyond you, can't use any senses you do not have. _A pause, and then, _It's quiet a lot like being trapped at the bottom of the ocean – mostly blind, mostly deaf, hardly able to move._

The angel's voice is _almost_ completely flat.

"Uh," says Dean, after a minute. And then, "That's kind of heavy, Cas."

_Don't worry about it_, says Castiel, back to his usual aloofness.

Ignoring him, Dean closes his eyes and concentrates. Tries to look at the shape of his mind, which is not something he has much experience with. But any hunter needs to be able to recognise abnormalities in his own head, because if they're there, odds are something nasty wants him dead. Dean knows what shape his mind should be, although the landscape changed pretty substantially after he got back from Hell. In any case, it's not like it's hard to spot Castiel – hiding an angel in your head is like hiding an elephant in a living room.

Castiel is still a bright presence far in the back of his mind, a presence Dean has been keeping the hell away from. But he looks closer now, probes with senses he has no name for, and finds that what before he had taken for the angel lounging against the furthest borders is actually the angel wrapped tensely in against himself, power pulled into a tiny, tightly walled space. The closer he looks, the dimmer the form becomes, as though the angel is shading himself from Dean or, more likely, Dean from him.

It's probably his imagination giving a form to something he has no way to comprehend, but he has the impression of a form sitting with limbs drawn right up to the chest, further confined by wings drawn around in a snug cocoon to hold back a landslide of strength. An ocean trapped in a closet.

"That… looks really uncomfortable. Is that what it's always like?"

_No. In a proper host, there's much less restriction. There are still limits, but not a constant need for such tight restraints._

"Guess it's not buckets of fun for either of us," says Dean, inadequately.

_Go to sleep, Dean._ Castiel sounds more weary than impatient.

"C'mon, man, we were just getting some rapport going!" Dean grins, but pulls the blankets back over him nevertheless. Castiel's presence fades, angel curling up further.

"Hey, Cas," says Dean, riding a weak current of sympathy.

_Yes_? It is impatience, now.

"No – never mind." The current falters in the face of more than two decades of hunting, every instinct telling him not to give a quarter, that he's given too much already. Dean closes his eyes, and tries to go back to sleep.

-------------------------------------------------

He wakes to a knocking on the door, a casual pounding on the other end of the spectrum from the disinterested rapping of room service. He nearly falls out of the bed, the events of the past 24 hours summed up in his bleary brain as: _they might be chasing you_.

Dean answers the door in his boxers and T, gun held just out of sight behind his back.

It's Sam, who gives him a look of vague surprised mixed with concern.

"You couldn't tell it was me?"

"Do I look like Deanna Troi?" Dean turns and walks back to the bed, Sam closing the door behind him.

"Now that you mention it…" Sam trails off at Dean's glare and switches tones, "I dunno, I thought maybe Cas…"

"Yeah, well, he's not a real useful houseguest," says Dean. And then, more forgivingly, recalling last night's conversation, "He's got to keep himself to himself. And I'm not really complaining."

"Right," says Sam, sceptically.

Dean ignores it. "Anyway, what d'you want? It's only," he glances at his watch. It reads 9:54. "Crap."

"Yeah. We'd better get going."

Dean stands, drags his bag up and pulls out the first clothes he comes to. "How's Jimmy?"

"About as well as you could expect. I redressed the burn. Doesn't look so good, but there's no sign of major infection."

"Thank you Dr. Crusher. Got any idea where we're going?" Dean yanks his shirt off and, after last night's sweat-fest, heads for the shower again.

Sam ignores the quip. "Nope. Just away from here."

"Right." Dean closes the door and turns on the faucet.

----------------------------------------------

It doesn't occur to him to ask Castiel about Jimmy's back until he's pulling on a fresh shirt, cotton sticking to the slightly damp skin of his own back.

"Hey, Cas?"

The angel stirs, unfolding slightly.

_I'm sharing your head, Dean. You don't have to keep talking out loud_, says the angel by way of greeting.

"You can read my mind?" So not good. Not that he ever had much trouble with it before. But Cas wasn't been around 24/7 then.

_Only the surface thoughts. If you can hear them in your head, so can I_.

"Sw –" begins Dean, and then stops. _Swell. Thanks for the heads up._

Castiel doesn't bother to answer.

_Anyway_, Dean glances at his reflection in the still-steamy mirror, just a big blur, and makes a face, _When'll we be good for another round at Jimmy's back?_

_Now, if you think it's wise before driving._

_Hey, if it gets this thing stitched up sooner, Sam can drive. Hell, I'd let _you_ drive. _Dean considers this. _Okay, not you. But Sam can drive._

He shoves his stuff back in his bag, grabs it, and heads out.

In the other room, Jimmy's still lying on the bed fully clothed on top of the blankets, but he's rolled over to lie on his side, coat and suit pulled to lie over the line of his side. He's facing the other bed, back to the door, but turns to glance over his shoulder as Dean comes in. Sam's brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

"Hey," says Dean. "How you feeling?"

"Like crap," says Jimmy, concisely. "Can you do anything about it?"

"Maybe a bit." Dean drops his bag on the end of the bed and sits down across from Jimmy.

_Cas?_

_Raise your hand._

He does, glancing at the layers of white gauze.

_Don't we need to take that off?_

_No_, says the angel simply.

Dean shrugs. And then a second later stiffens as Castiel stretches, strength spreading like wings in his mind, and power flows down his arm.

Jimmy sighs softly, shoulders slumping as tension bleeds out of them again. And then it's over, and Dean's cold and empty again.

He wonders if this is what going cold turkey is like, which leads to the inevitable thought: cold turkey from angel-juice?

Sam's watching from the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand. Dean gives him a _what?_ look, and he shrugs.

"Got a destination yet?" asks Dean, leaning back to take some weight off his trembling back muscles.

"Maybe north? Eastern seaboard's got too many people, we're running out of ground south, and we sure don't want to go back the way we came."

"Alright," says Dean, too tired to snark for the moment. "North it is. Harness up your sled," he adds, indicating Jimmy with a glance. He stands himself and grabs his bag, swinging it up to his shoulder before his arm starts to shake.

He makes two trips between the motel room and the car, one for his bag and one for Sam's, in the time it takes his brother to help Jimmy out and into the back seat. Dean, who's feeling shaky but not incapable, especially on these long empty roads, slips into the driver's seat, and they're off. Outside the windows, the icy fields begin to slip by. Dean reaches out and cranks the speakers; he can almost hear the angel's withering glare in his head. He smiles.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

With nothing to do and nowhere to be, they stop for lunch at a mostly empty 50s-style diner in Aberdeen MS, all hideous colours, Motown piped in through the speakers, and grease. Jimmy takes one look at the menu, pales, and orders a salad and O.J. while leaning over the table with his back a good foot from the seat. Sam, sitting by the window and apparently feeling unadventurous, goes for a burger and fries. Dean, rolling his eyes at him, asks the waitress with the damn fine ass – which is not affected in the slightest by the lurid uniform – for a steak with potatoes and gravy.

_Please Mr. Postman_ is crackling through the speakers when the food arrives, the waitress giving him a wide smile as she pushes the salad across to Jimmy, ignoring the rumpled man entirely. Jimmy, taking the plate and staring down at it in unimpressed moroseness, doesn't seem to care. Sam, however, kicks his brother under the table. Dean turns to glare; Sam raises his eyebrows pointedly while she puts the other plates down and then flounces away.

"What?" hisses Dean.

"Dude. _Angel_."

"He can damn well shut his eyes if he doesn't like it," says Dean, who will never lose an argument to Sam because of rule #1 of sibling interaction: Older Brothers Cannot Lose, but the truth is he'd been running entirely on autopilot. He picks up his knife and fork and launches into the steak while Sam sighs and picks up his burger.

If Castiel has any thoughts about the girl – or the steak – he doesn't voice them, but it ruins Dean's mood anyway. He chews his way through the steak sullenly – it's overdone – and hardly notices the soggy potatoes. Sam abandons his burger for the fries, and when they're polished off begins on it again without enthusiasm. Jimmy picks at his salad like a bird, and then leaves to go to the can.

"I think I know why this place is empty," says Dean, eyeing the remainders of his grey potatoes.

"Tell me about it," says Sam, putting down his half-finished burger.

"You think Jimmy's okay?"

"Well, we should probably get him something else later, maybe some energy bars or something…"

"That's not what I meant. Also: energy bars?" Dean gives his brother a _what are you, a hippie_? look. Sam ignores it.

"I don't know. There's not a lot we can do. He can't see his family, he must know that. How would you feel? Hey, you've got a your life back for a couple days but don't bother to enjoy it, you're going to lose it again." Sam pulls a pickle out of his burger, considers it, and then puts it down again.

"Better a few days than nothing," says Dean, staring at the empty seat across from him.

"Is it? I'm not so sure."

"Yeah, well, _I_ am. Even a few days is worth it." Dean turns to look at Sam, and sees the flash of recognition there.

In the back of his mind, Castiel stirs. _I didn't know you were so invested in living_, says the angel in a quiet, hard tone.

_I'm just full of surprises, _is what he broadcasts, what lies over the surface of his thoughts loud and prickly. But under it, steady with the strength of belief he can't help: _Life's the only thing we have that matters. _He's learned it the hard way; learned how much even this crappy life meant to him: so much that he'd have given anything – _almost _anything – to keep it.

And, before that, how very wrong it felt, living one that wasn't his. Living one that should have belonged to some poor Joe labelled as a sinner.

Living one that should have belonged to Dad.

_You are uniquely qualified to know that_, says Castiel, ignoring Dean's attempt at fending him off and picking up the deeper thread shamelessly.

_Thanks for reminding me._

In the corner, the bathroom door creaks open, Jimmy returning slowly. Sam turns back to his plate; Dean glowers at the wall.

They leave a stingy tip.

----------------------------------------------

"You know," says Sam after they've been on the road for a while, reaching out to turn down _Don't Stop Believing_ and swivel to look over his shoulder, "you could call your family. I mean, you can't visit them, but if you want to use one of our phones…"

Dean glances at his brother in surprise, Sam catches it and shrugs slightly. Jimmy, sitting sideways on the backseat staring out the driver's side window at a dirty white field, doesn't turn. "No thanks."

"It's no problem. It's not like we're paying the bill, anyway."

Currently Mr. Werkowitz of Cleveland is.

"No thanks," says Jimmy in exactly the same tone. The one they're used to hearing from Castiel: cold and gruff detachment.

"Okay. If you do, just let us know." Sam waits a second, awkwardly, and then sits back. Dean reaches out and turns up the volume again.

In his head, Castiel is still and silent.

-------------------------------------------

Another night, another motel, another separation. This time Sam takes the second room, Dean bunking with Jimmy. He's not looking forward to it.

Jimmy's not the easy-going ignorant civilian Dean remembers, but it's not like they knew him for more than a couple of hours. A couple of hours which changed the man's entire life, again. He's quiet now, like always, and Dean can only imagine what he must think about during the long drives. What he must be thinking about, lying on his stomach on one of the twin beds.

"You can borrow some of my clothes, if you want. Or we could get you some new ones; can't believe we didn't think of it before," says Dean, to break the silence. Jimmy's still sporting the trench coat look, probably because his shirt and jacket are stained with blood. The same shirt and jacket he's been wearing for the past several months.

"Sure," Jimmy says, without looking. "Whatever."

"Right," drawls Dean uncertainly, staring at the unmoving figure. He sorts through his bag and turns out a loose long-sleeve shirt and some laundry-softened jeans. Drops them on the corner of Jimmy's bed, by his feet. "Those'll probably do you for tomorrow; we can stop off somewhere then and pick you up some stuff."

"Thanks." The same dead tone.

"No problem." Dean stares for a minute, and then walks stiffly into the bathroom to stare at his face in the mirror. A little tired, a little dull, nothing that stands out. No stamp on his forehead "Angel Onboard." He turns on the sink and splashes some cold water on his face.

_You listening? _he asks, without looking up.

_Yes_. Castiel hardly shifts.

_How well do you know him?_ Dean keeps his eyes on the drain, slightly tarnished with a water stain ringing it, so he doesn't see the cold anger on his face. So the angel doesn't.

_I'm aware of the major event of his life, of his family and friends, of his values and morals_, says Castiel in a closed voice, a voice which says: _I don't want to talk about this_. Dean ignores it.

_That's not what I asked. I asked how well you _know_ the man. Know what he wants, what his goals are, what he's afraid of. What he loves, how he loves it._

_Angels are not humans, Dean. These are not things we consider, although we may be aware of them._

_That's a crappy answer, Cas. I'm asking if you understand him. Hell, do you even _care_ about him?_

There's no response.

_Are you just going to tell me you can't? Give me that bull: angels don't feel, angels don't understand, angels don't care? You've ruined his life, don't you _dare_ tell me you don't know him!_

Castiel shifts heavily in his mind, heat slipping out for just a second like steam from under the lid of a boiling pot. _This isn't your business, Dean._

_Like hell it's not! Who else out there is going to stick up for him? No one. Throw out someone possessed by a demon, and hordes of people'll show up to try to pry it out. Give them someone possessed by an angel, and they'll call it a blessing!_

_And either way, it would be irrelevant_, says Cas, almost sharply. _He has agreed to it._

_Yeah, because you gave him the choice of him, or his daughter. That's not agreement Cas, that's coercion! _Dean does look up now, stares into his own furious eyes and wishes he could see something of the angel there to glare at.

Castiel doesn't answer. It takes all the restraint Dean has not to tell him to get the fuck out, regardless of the danger.

_A year ago, we would have been fighting something like you,_ he snarls, finally.

_A year ago, you wouldn't have been able to_, answers the angel coldly. Dean tenses as if struck, and slams the tap shut so hard the metal squeals under his grip.

_Fuck you_, he says, and storms out of the bathroom. Which puts him absolutely no further from the angel. "Fuck," he says aloud again, throws his bag at the wall and drops heavily onto the bed.

"Got that right," says Jimmy, in a muffled voice. Dean freezes, not having forgotten the man's presence as much as having forgotten he might be listening.

Dean sighs deeply, immediate rage cooling slowly.

"He give you this much trouble?" he asks after a while, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

There's a pause, and then, "Dunno. Mostly all I remember's the pain. He blocks out the rest pretty well, but he can't seem to do the pain properly. Maybe he doesn't understand it."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it."

The ceiling's the usual motel fare, moulded stucco with a light fixture shaped like a sun mounted in the middle. It's got little curved mirrors sticking out around the edges to indicate heat rays; Dean can see his legs in them, also the floor and Jimmy's shoe.

After a while, Dean clears his throat. "You have to do it; I get that. It's you or your family – it makes sense. But, you've got some time now. Maybe a couple of days, even. I'm not the kind of guy to tell people how to live their lives or anything, but from someone who knows what it's like to only have a couple of days left, you should make the best of it." As soon as he's said it, he's not sure why. Thank god Sam's not here to see him giving advice about emotional choices to strangers. Maybe Cas shorted out something in his brain.

Jimmy makes a gruff sound, and Dean thinks he's coughing before he realises the man's laughing. "How? Go to Vegas? Go sky diving? See the Grand Canyon?"

"Call your family," suggests Dean, in the same light-hearted tone. Great, now he can't stop himself.

Jimmy falls silent immediately. Then, "No." There's none of the polite disinterest of this afternoon. Just hard, cold refusal.

"Look, some time – some_thing_ – is better than nothing." He surprises even himself with the strength of his belief. But there's no hunter alive who doesn't have that same conviction: life tops everything else, even if it's not necessary the hunter's life. Always.

"Just – drop it. Okay?"

There's no room for argument in that tone, and Dean doesn't know the man well enough to press it in any case. Hell, he doesn't know _anyone_ well enough to press something like this, other than Sam. "Okay," he says, in a _backing off_ tone. Jimmy sighs.

_His back_, says Cas out of nowhere, in an odd voice close by him. Dean sits up, and starts to look behind him before he catches himself.

And then, _No_.

_Dean. We don't have time to linger here_.

_You want me to help you use him again? Take him, twist him like a puppet until he doesn't suit you anymore and then throw him away? Well, screw that_.

_There is no choice here. If I don't take him as my vessel again, then what? Will you protect him for the rest of his life? The demons will hunt him, torture him, kill him, if you don't. _

"It's not right," snarls Dean, aloud.

_No. But it's what must happen. He will give you the same answer._

"I don't _care_ what he thinks, he's _wrong_!"

_Then you are no better than me. _

There's a tiny pause, filled with knives and broken glass. And then:

"Cas?" says Jimmy from the bed, sitting up to look at Dean with the most focus Dean's seen in his eyes since the man's speech near the barn. In his head, Castiel unfolds himself, heat and strength pressing against Dean's mind like a bird beating its wings against its cage.

_Ask him_, says the angel, voice loud and harsh as waves crashing against a seawall in Dean's ears.

Dean, eyes narrowed against the heat in his head, stares at the man sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him.

"Jimmy, look – you've got to go back. I know. But it doesn't have to be right away. We can hold off, take things slow, give you some time."

Jimmy gives him a long, slow look. "You must drive Cas crazy," he says, finally, in a flat tone. "It'll do him good. But don't bother on my behalf."

"Jimmy –"

"Just do it. We don't have that kind of time to waste, do we? Do we, Cas?"

Dean can _feel_ the angel fighting to keep himself from answering, from speaking in Dean's voice or even just nodding. From using Dean as he promised not to. It's dizzying, and Dean closes his eyes and presses his hand against the bridge of his nose.

"Just… get it over with," says Jimmy, and Dean hears the shuffle of fabric and the creak of springs as he sits down again. Castiel calms, pulling back. Dean, face twisted into a furious snarl, walks over and raises his hand.

-------------------------------------------------

Dean doesn't dream, or if he does, he doesn't remember. He wakes to stare up at the ceiling in confusion for a minute, a hundred similar ceilings flashing through his mind before he remembers where he is. What he is, right now. An angel's host. He closes his eyes, used enough to it now to not feel any fear. He feels disgust instead, with himself, with Castiel, with Jimmy. With Heaven and Hell and the goddamn Apocalypse. It's too big, too much, too momentous for him. For people in general, for the weak, insignificant humans who have no chance of fighting this battle that will take place on their soil. Who can't even comprehend it.

_That is why we must fight it for them_, says Castiel, softly.

Dean rolls over. _I thought you didn't care about humans anymore_, he says, with sarcasm and bitterness, not expecting an answer. He gets one anyway.

_I won't place one above the others, won't value them above my brothers and sisters. It's not the same thing._

Dean's still working out the implications of that when the covers rustle on the other bed, Jimmy shifting.

"Jimmy?" Dean looks over, whispering uncertainly in the darkness.

Jimmy's voice is gruff with sleep, or maybe just pain, but strong nevertheless when he answers. "Yeah. What time's it?"

The bright red lights of the digital clock beside the bed read 7:48.

"Almost 8 o'clock. Time to get up. How's the back?" Dean rolls out of bed and shuffles over to the wall to find the light switch, fumbles around near the door before tracking it down. Jimmy sits up, face slightly haggard, hair sticking in all directions.

"Alright."

"I'll take a look at it. Might as well take off your shirt, if you're gonna change anyway." He heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take care of his own bed head while the other man slowly begins shifting out of his dirty layers. By the time he returns, Jimmy's picking at the white bandage on his back, glancing over his shoulder while clearly trying not to twist his spine. Dean comes over to crouch down by the side of the bed, and slowly unwraps the gauze.

Under it the burn is still an angry red, but much less prominent against the paler skin around it. There are no longer any open wounds, no cracking red or weeping fluid, but the mark is still raised prominently. Still a definite ward.

"Looks okay. No infection. It's healing well."

"How much longer."

_Cas?_

_Two days, perhaps._

"Two days, give or take."

"Right."

Dean raises his hand, holds tense and stiff as the heat streams through him and the redness withdraws slightly, skin straightening like a sheet being pulled flat. When he's finished, hands shaking, he pulls a small first-aid kit from his bag and rewraps the burn carefully. Jimmy still flinches.

He's just tied off the end when someone hammers on the door, causing them both to start. Dean gets up, gun in hand.

As expected it's Sam, standing dressed with his bag on his shoulder and his phone in his hand.

"Just got a call from Bobby," he says without preamble, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "Friend of his called in a banshee in Marshall, Missouri."

Dean stares at him in incredulity. "You think now's a good time for a hunt?" He glances back towards Jimmy, sitting on the bed with tense shoulders trying to take regular breaths. "Let his friend take care of it!"

"He tried," says Sam, darkly. "It was his wife – his widow – who called Bobby."

Dean blinks, then lets out all his breath in one harsh breath. After a minute he looks back towards Jimmy again, considering.

"I guess we could stash him with Bobby…"

"Dean, Bobby's almost exactly _behind_ us. In the time it takes to get there, then to Marshall…"

"So what, we should take him with us? Banshees are nasty work, you know that. What's he going to do, threaten to report it for tax evasion?"

"If I don't come," says Jimmy, from behind them, "it'll be that much longer before you get rid of Cas."

"Yeah, and if you do," says Dean, turning to face him, "and the banshee gets you, I might _never_ get rid of him!" But Dean can see he's going to lose this fight, can read it in Jimmy's eyes for all that he doesn't know him. It's been a long time since he's seen that kind of fatal acceptance in anyone's eyes, a lack of concern with the future. Reminds him unaccountably of the girl that time with faith healer and the Reaper, of Layla. Maybe that whole incident's just on his mind after yesterday's conversations.

"Fine," he growls. "You come, you do what we tell you when we tell you, and if things go bad you get the hell out, got it?"

"Yes," says Jimmy.

Dean turns back to Sam. "I don't like this," he says, pinning his brother with his eyes for a moment. Sam shrugs, _what can we do_?

Nothing. Exactly, precisely nothing.

He's getting damn tired of no-win scenarios.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a long time since they hunted a banshee. They tend to stick to the old European hotspots, and even then the Celtic areas for preference. Probably get more of a kick out of the terror of victims who know what they are. Dean's only ever seen one once, even Dad only ever hunted two. They're fast and while they're not strong they have a voice that can knock you out – kill you, at short range. And, unlike most things supernatural, they're_ smart_. Not just a feral cunning, but an intellectually brightness that makes them a damn dangerous hunt for men and women used to dealing with mindless things that follow patterns and rules.

Definitely _not_ the kind of thing he wants to be hunting while saddled with a helpless bystander and an angel squatter.

It's several hours to Marshall banging along on the highway, early spring weather becoming sharper the further north they head. Sam calls Bobby back to get any details he has; it's a short call.

"Right. Right. Okay, thanks Bobby." He hangs up with a click, props his arm up on the window sill to lean against it and stare out at the road.

"Well?" says Dean, glancing at him.

"Well, Terry – that's the wife – didn't want to talk about it. The way Bobby tells it, they'd only been in town for a day following up some leads. No strong suspicion of who it could be, no real clues. The guy went out alone, didn't come back. Cops found him early this morning."

"Damn. When these things go bad, they go _bad_."

"They're not always bad?" asks Jimmy in a sceptical tone from the back seat. Dean glances in the rear-view mirror, and is surprised to see the man has torn himself away from the extremely fascinating ice-covered fields to look at him. Dean shrugs.

"You know the legends. They used to hang around houses where someone was going to die and scream to attract more food – they feed on grief. Usually it's passive enough, and nowadays they've figured out it's easier just to hang around in a profession that sees a lot of death – hospital assistants, funeral home workers, that kind of thing." Dean shakes his head. "Undead employment for the 21st century."

"Anyway," says Sam, cutting in, "They're usually harmless. Until they catch onto the fact that fear's a lot more tasty than grief, as well as being easier to come by, and take things into their own hands."

"Which is where we come in," says Dean. "Trouble is, your average banshee's a lot smarter than most people, and they can get nasty really fast."

"Definitely sounds like something we should be chasing after," says Jimmy. Dean glares at him in the mirror, and he shrugs. "Just saying. So how do you kill it?"

"Anything that kills a person's fine, although generally it takes more hits. Or fire, fire's good." He turns to Sam. "We still got that propane torch in the back?"

Sam glances back towards the truck, considering. "I think so…"

"Good."

"You're going to _torch _someone?"

"Some _thing_," corrects Dean. In the back, Jimmy shrugs and turns back to the fields. Dean looks back to the road, frowning.

_Cas?_

_I thought you didn't want me speaking to you while driving. A policy I can't say I disagree with._

Dean rolls his eyes. Everyone's a critic. Talking to Castiel while driving is in fact a lot less distracting than he'd thought it would be, mostly because he can just pretend the angel's sitting behind him. In fact, when he glances in the mirror and sees Jimmy there he's momentarily confused.

_Look, you said Jimmy was devout, right? Prayed for possession, all that crap._

_I did._

_Are we gonna have a problem with him? I mean, the whole "thou shalt not kill" thing… _

_You could ask him,_ suggests the angel.

_I'm asking you!_ For one thing, that's not a conversation Dean's got any interest in having: _hey, Jimmy, buddy, how are you on the whole massacring of people who look just like people but are in fact hideous creatures?_ Mostly, though, he just wants to know how much attention Castiel's paid to his host.

It occurs to him about now that asking questions with ulterior motives doesn't really work when the person you're trying to hide said ulterior motives from is _in your head_.

_Then, in my opinion, no, you won't. However, if you're truly concerned, you should –_

_Yeah, yeah, ask him, I know. _Dean shifts his full attention back on driving. Sam starts shuffling through their false IDs.

----------------------------------------------------

Marshall's a handy size for them, big enough that strangers won't be noticed, but small enough that oddities won't be hard to track down. Oddities like dead bodies showing up with no apparent cause of death.

They go in as marshals, that perennial favourite, which is also in this case particularly appropriate if you have the sense of a humour of a five year-old. Dean totally does not laugh. Really.

It turns out that the authorities in Marshall are all over this case. They have taken onboard the fact that they have several strange deaths on their hands, and have even taken the further step of having autopsies run on them. Crack police work at its best.

Tracking down the local morgue's no trouble; it's conveniently across the road from the police station which they avoid for the time being – no point in associating with the cops more than necessary. The good old days when they weren't papered from sea to shining sea are long gone.

They take Jimmy in with them as a witness to identify the dead hunter, Bill Stanford. He's ditched his coat and suit for Dean's old jeans and shirt, and both Dean and Sam keep turning to see who the hell's following them, and startling each time as they recognise him. It's only now Dean realises exactly how much of the man he associated with the man's clothes, or rather vice-versa; without them Jimmy feels like a completely different person. It doesn't help that he hardly speaks, asserts almost no personality.

"Hope you don't mind morgues," says Dean as they climb the steps.

"Don't know," answers Jimmy, looking mildly apprehensive. "Never been in one."

Sometimes Dean forgets normal people don't visit morgues every week.

The attendants are only too glad to let a pair of marshals take a look at their mysterious corpses, or at least the three which haven't been released for interment. A tall ginger-haired man in a lab coat with Richards embroidered on the breast pocket escorts them into the small storage room, smelling of cold air and chemical cleaners. It looks exactly the same as the hundreds of other morgues Dean's seen, and he pays no attention to the minor details; paint, tagging procedures, light fixtures. Jimmy hangs back in the corner looking cold and uncomfortable.

"Damn strange," says Richards, walking over to pull open the nearest locker for them. "Just dropped dead. No history of heart trouble in three of them, absolutely no history of substance abuse. No drugs or wounds. Not even alcohol. Just dropped."

"Nothing unusual at all?" asks Sam, standing by the corpse's shoulder. It's a young man in his 20s, close-cropped hair, freckles, broken nose that healed crookedly. Jimmy's still lingering in the corner; Dean catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye and turns to see who it is before recognizing him – 4th time so far. Dean looks back to the corpse and finds nothing particularly out of the way there. In the back of his mind Castiel stirs, and there's that pressure like the angel's leaning on his shoulders, peering through his eyes. Dean shivers.

"Except for all the above?" Richards considers, shrugs. "There was some cyanosis of the lips in all five."

Sam nods, genius college-boy that he is. Dean stares. Richards catches his look, and expands, "Blue lips. Of course, it's cold at night, but two of them were found while the bodies were still warm, and with no other signs of hypothermia."

"Yeah, that's weird," agrees Dean, looking significantly at Sam.

Richards nods, and slides the corpse back into its locker. "Now, you said you were here to see the Stanford – " he cuts himself off with a slight glance towards Jimmy, "Mr. Stanford?"

"That's right," says Dean, gruff and official.

"He's over here." Richards crosses to the other side of the room, footsteps ringing over the enamel tile.

On the other side of the door there's the sound of more footsteps, and both Dean and Sam freeze. Jimmy crosses over to stand behind them in quick steps. The door opens to admit the second attendant, Sing, and three others. Two are uniformed cops who look at Dean and Sam with something between respect and suspicion. The third is a pale woman with dark hair, light freckled skin and red-rimmed eyes. She is otherwise composed, and Dean knows just by glancing at her that even if the situation were otherwise he'd never have a chance with her; she's hard as nails and utterly unimpressed by them.

"Mrs. Stanford?" says Sam, stepping forward and waiting for the nod – it's predictably curt. "We're marshals King and Eliot. We're investigating your husband's death. You already know Mr. No – tting," he adds indicating Jimmy, barely stumbling over the spur-of-the-moment false name, while staring at her hard.

"Of course," she says coldly. She moves past them towards Richards, who's standing beside locker on the far side of the room from the door. Dean sidles up to the cops, and flashes his badge.

"Marshals Eliot and King," he repeats in a low tone, watching as Richards opens the heavy door. "Here about one of your spontaneous corpses."

"No one told us about it," says the shorter cop, who's been overdoing the doughnuts, more irritated than suspicious now.

"Yeah, well, you know the bureaucracy. You'll probably get the fax in a month. Don't worry, we're not here to take your case. We're just looking into Mr. Notting there's possible involvement with one of the deaths. You'll hardly know we're here," he adds. It'll almost certainly be true; they've yet to meet a police force that was actually in the right place at the right time. With the exception of Hendrickson, and that was just damn inconvenient.

The cops grunt, but they're not really paying attention. Neither is he; they're all three of them watching Terry Stanford standing straight-backed with her hands grasping the cold pallet in a white-knuckled grip, staring at the pale corpse it holds.

"It's him," she forces out after a minute, without looking around. The less chunky cop raises a clipboard and scribbles something.

"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Stanford," The empathy in the man's tone is impressive, but Dean supposes out in the boonies they hire cops for their rapport with the locals rather than their ability to cower perps with a single glance. "Do you want to come back to the station with us?"

She shakes her head mutely. No one's surprised, least of all the cops.

"Well, if you remember anything significant, be sure to drop by the station. Otherwise we'll contact you when we turn something up."

_In other words, never_, thinks Dean. Richards is the only one in the room who knows less about these deaths than the cops.

She nods again, and the cops trudge out.

"Mr. Richards," drawls Dean, "D'you mind giving us a few minutes?"

Richards looks cagey, but Sam claps a light hand on his shoulder and leads him towards the door, muttering something about looking after things. The man leaves, glancing back as the door closes behind him.

"So you're the Winchesters," says Terry in a gritty voice after a few minutes of cold silence. She turns around, bony hands fisted tight.

"That's us," says Dean. "He's just along for the ride," he adds, thumbing at Jimmy.

"We're really sorry about Bill," cuts in Sam, with one of his patented sympathetic looks.

"Yeah, well," she says stiffly, uncurling a hand to wave it. It's clear she can't carry off the unaffected act as well as she'd like, and she crosses her arms tightly over her stomach and turns to stare intently at a wall of locker doors. "Look, I can't help you. I told Bobby everything I know, which was nothing. Bill caught the trail, we came, he –" She hisses slightly, brushes her hair needlessly away from her face, fidgets with the collar of her coat.

"You always tell yourself it could happen any time, you know?" she says after a pause, in a far-away tone. "It's a dangerous job, and one of these days he'll screw up, or whatever he's after will just be a little too fast, and – You tell yourself that every month, every week, every day. But the truth is, you never believe it. Not really."

She squares her shoulders and turns to face Dean, dark eyes hard. "I won't bother to tell you to leave this one along. I hope you catch the bitch, catch her and burn her. But I doubt you will." She pulls her coat tighter around her, turns on her heels, and marches stiffly out of the room. The door slams shut behind her.

"You know," says Dean, staring after her, "sometimes I really hate this job."

In the back of his mind, Castiel shifts. But he doesn't say anything, and Dean looks back to the others. "Let's get out of here."

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"We'll have to split up," says Sam as they peel out onto the road, pulling a u-turn right in front of the station – Sam gives him a look. "You go shopping and I'll book some rooms."

"He can't do his own shopping?" says Dean, peering into a strip mall of organic grocers and pretentious yuppie wine-shops and glaring at the degradation of society it heralds.

"I'm sure he can," says Sam, "but can he fight off the demons that might be after him?"

"'He' can hear you," says Jimmy without looking.

"Yeah, well, no offense, but you can't," says Dean, conceding without actually having to come out and say it. "Look." He pulls over, indicating a second-hand clothing store on the corner.

"What?" says Jimmy, turning to look out the opposite window in the direction Dean's pointing.

"Second-hand store," says Dean. Glances in the mirror to see the flat look Jimmy's giving him. "Dude, we're not made of money."

"And you said you're not paying for it, either." Jimmy sighs, but doesn't press the issue.

"Right. C'mon." Dean opens his door and steps out, leans back in to address Sam, "Meet us back here when you've got some rooms."

"Got it."

Dean shuts the door, Sam sliding over to take the wheel. Jimmy's already on the sidewalk, striding slowly towards the store. Dean raps on the glass; Sam rolls down the window. "Don't take all day," he hisses. Sam rolls his eyes, and hits the gas. "I mean it, Sam! Sam!"

Dean sighs, and follows Jimmy into the second-hand store.

It's no different than any of the other second-hand stores Dean's been in, just like the morgue. The air's a little too hot, and smells of dust and – just faintly – mothballs. The clothes are in two general categories: regular and well-worn, or truly bizarre and brand-new. Jimmy heads for the men's corner and begins sorting through a pile of slacks. "Get something hard-wearing," says Dean, and then notices the look the woman behind the counter's giving them and fades off into the sock row to consider buying Sam something hideous in green and orange, possibly with ponies.

_Dean_, says Castiel with absolutely no warning. Not at all prepared, Dean's first thought is that the angel is standing right behind him, and swivels with a startled hiss that attracts the attention of both Jimmy and the lady at the register. Jimmy gives him a thoughtful glance and turns back to v-neck argyle sweaters or whatever other horrible clothing he may be contemplating. The lady gives him a glare which says she suspects him of a multitude of sins. He gives a bright smile and turns back to the sock shelf.

_Dude, _seriously_, give some warning, will you?_

_Sorry,_ says Castiel, not sounding it. _I thought it might be prudent to mention, though, that if the banshee is still in this city, she will be able to recognise me._

Dean stops considering sock options to give the angel his full attention. _Recognise you like… recognise you?_ He says slowly, trying to draw out more facts without actually having to ask for them. Castiel shifts in what might be irritation, if he's still up to that level of emotion.

_Recognise that there is an angel in you._

Dean winces. _Never, ever say that aloud. Please. In fact, just never say it again at all. Ever._

_It wasn't meant as a –_

_Never mind_, snarls Dean. _Just tell me what you meant. About the recognising thing_, he adds hastily.

_Simply that, if it sees you, she will know you are a lethal threat to her, and will almost certainly leave town._

_And you didn't think this might be something you should mention _before_?_

_Before there was no proof we were actually dealing with a banshee. The corpses, however, had clearly been touched by one. _The way in which Castiel says it suggests he's drawn that conclusion from an entirely different set of facts than Dean.

_Riiiight_, drawls Dean. _So, it looks at me and sees angel. What if you – I – look at it? Will I recognise it?_

_I doubt you will. If I happen to be looking, then yes. I will know her._

_Because all things supernatural just scream out to you?_

_Because banshees were fallen angels, once_, says Castiel in a slow, cutting tone.

Dean blinks. _What?_ _Wait – what?_

"Dean?" says a voice at his side, and he starts so violently he nearly falls into the sock shelves, spinning around to glare at, yes, Jimmy. The man's got a small pile of clothes in his arms, and is giving him an uncomfortably close look. As if searching for something in his eyes.

"What?" spits out Dean, trying to follow two trains of thought going in completely opposite directions.

"I'm finished," says Jimmy. And then, in a prompting tone, "You have the money."

"Right. Right." He pulls his wallet out of his pants and thumbs through his cash. Pulls out a couple of twenties. "Here, that should cover it. I'm kind of in the middle of something." He hands the money over. Or tries to. Jimmy, arms full, makes no move to take it. Indicates the counter with his eyes.

"Yes, well, whatever you're busy with is making the clerk jumpy," he says in a low tone. "Either she thinks you're after her socks, or possibly just dangerously insane. Regardless, you probably shouldn't hang around here glaring at the shelf."

"Fine, let's go," he says aloud, and then, _Hold that thought_. This whole inside-outside voice thing is giving him a headache.

He pays for Jimmy's clothes – 37.15 for three shirts, three pairs of socks (new), three pairs of briefs (new), a pair of dark slacks and a canvas jacket – and both of them pretend not to notice when the woman stuffs the clothes into a plastic bag so quickly she rips it and has to double bag.

"Well, that was fun," Dean glances around for Sam with little hope as they step out of the store. Sure enough, the Impala's nowhere in sight.

"What were you talking to Cas about?"

"I'll tell you when Sam gets his butt back here. You see a pharmacy? We should pick you up some more bandages. Hell, we should pick _us_ up some more bandages." It's not like they won't go through them.

Looking around, Dean sees nothing hopeful in this block, but down the street he spots the tail end of a sign reading "macy" peeking out from behind the corner of another building. "Alright," he says, and leads the way.

The downtown core of Marshall is brick and wood, buildings spacious and well-spread. Large bare trees line the streets, in the late spring and summer they probably provide a lot of nice greenery. Now, though, they just add to the overall feeling of looming emptiness. The streets are slow, pedestrians few, and the town feels cold and grey. Dean makes a face at his imagination and gives himself a good mental shake, then crosses the road with Jimmy trailing behind like an overgrown duckling.

They pick up the medical supplies, as well as some rubbing alcohol – 90% proof ethanol's gotta be good for something – and a three-pack of cheap plastic lighters.

The don't really give any feeling of security.

The Impala's parked outside the second-hand shop when they come out, Sam standing on the kerb rubber-necking. He gives a brief nod when he catches sight of them, and gets back into the car. He's studying a crackling-new map of the city when they get back, Dean tossing him the pharmacy bag and turning the keys waiting for him in the ignition. Sam gives him directions to the motel, and they pull out into the straggling traffic.

"So," says Jimmy after a few blocks. "What's going on?"

Sam turns to look at the man, and then at Dean, eyebrows raised.

"Dean?" he asks.

"Me and Cas were having a little chat in the sock aisle. He says banshees are fallen angels," relates Dean in his best idle chit-chat tone. He hears Jimmy stiffen in the back seat.

Behind him, Sam just looks contemplative and says, "Huh."

"'Huh,'" repeats Dean, glancing at him incredulously.

"It's not exactly news, Dean. There've been ties between banshees and fallen angels drawn for centuries. Obviously, no one believed them before, but it would make sense."

"Sense," says Dean flatly.

"Well, voice that can deafen, extreme intelligence, ability to predict death…" Sam shrugs. "Kind of angel territory."

_Yes_, says Castiel darkly, shuffling in the back of Dean's mind. _The children of the Disobedient. Abominations_.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Notes: Well, having not said it thus far: a great big thanks to the reviewers, they're definitely appreciated! My beta's not caught up on SPN so this fic is entirely unbeta'd, and as such any comments/crit is definitely welcome (as, in fact, it always is).

As for updating, the schedule may or may not slow down a bit. I've run out of saved-up chapters, so it depends on how fast I'm able to write them, and I'm entering a pretty busy time. Should only be another couple of chapters, though, so hopefully I'll get it wrapped up in a pretty timely fashion.

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Apparently this is Marshall's busy season – Dean wonders if people have come in from the entire state to admire the lovely fields of icy mud, or what? – because Sam isn't able to get adjoining rooms. They sit in the double room, Sam at the table, Jimmy on one of the beds, Dean leaning back against the particle-board dresser.

"So," says Sam, staring at an open window on his laptop showing a faded picture of a young woman in a long cloak with an expression of composed grief. "Angels – like Anna, for example – go rogue. They have kids. The kids have kids. And somewhere down the line, the kids become banshees. Like reverse evolution?"

"Pretty much," says Dean sourly. Castiel really doesn't want to talk about it, and getting information out of him's like trying to pry open an oyster with a liquorice stick.

"I guess it's not actually a bad thing. I mean, banshees don't breed, so they're the end of the line, genetically-speaking."

"Thank you Mr. Optimism. Wanna go have a tea-party with them?" This whole thing's giving Dean a headache, he can't help it if he's not up to his standard on the snipe-o'meter. Sam glares silently. "I think you'll agree that a bigger question is: angels have sex?"

Castiel ruffles heavily, in something that feels close to antagonism. "Cas?" says Dean, sharply.

_Clearly it is not impossible_, answers the angel in clipped tones. _It is one thing for a fallen angel, such as Anna as she was, shorn of his or her identity, effectively no longer an angel, to participate in such acts. But for an angel who chooses to disobey without falling, who remains at least in part an angel, it is an abomination, a defilation. Obscene, disgusting. Even the disobedient, the fallen, who are to be reviled and shunned and destroyed, do not usually fall so far. Imagine bedding a chimpanzee. An orang-utan, in its own filth._ There's more emotion there than Dean's ever heard from the angel. It also sounds eerily like he's repeating rote-phrases that have been pounded into him. They pour out one after the other mechanically, in perfect order and pace, as if the angel hasn't had to put any thought into his words.

"Okay…" he says, the words _mud monkey_ echoing in his mind.

_Do not put Uriel's words in my mouth_, says Castiel sharply, with such intensity that Dean winces.

"Dean?" says Sam in the background.

_This isn't an opinion. It's a fact. _Castiel snaps the words out, sharp as a whip-crack, and it's hard to tell with the way the angel's roiling around his head like a thunder storm, but it seems to Dean there's almost a hint of distaste there. Distaste, not of the topic, but of himself.

_An angel who disobeys and keeps a human vessel may have the ability to procreate, but there is still a world of difference between that angel and humans. It is unthinkable; incomprehensible. And the fruit of such a union is doubly damned. An atrocity which should not exist. _Castiel ends with a harsh clatter, and Dean _can_ feel the conflict now, feel the angel fighting with himself. And, it seems to Dean, losing.

"Dean?" says Sam again, standing to take a step closer to his brother. Dean blinks and tries to draw his thoughts together.

"Apparently human fraternization is worse than bestiality upstairs."

Castiel shrugs, a soft movement, and calms slightly. _Nevertheless, it has happened. Rarely, but often enough to result in a brood of these creatures_.

"I'm surprised you didn't just smite the lot of them," says Dean, getting tangled up with the two conversations at once thing again.

_Disobeyers who last long enough to propagate are, by necessity, survivors. Beside which, we have kept out of humanity's affairs for these past two millennia. To never see the light of Heaven or hear the voices of their brethren again is considered a terrible punishment. Not equal to the sin, but sufficient at least in the short term. _Castiel has calmed further, and his tone is low and gritty now.

Dean wonders, briefly, how long "short term" is for angels, if two millennia doesn't cut it. But he's already got his next thought lined up. _Oh yeah, banning them from the staff Christmas party must smart_.

_You have never known a home, nor a true family. It's not surprising you can't contemplate the agony of that separation_, returns Castiel in a harsh tone which suggests he's contemplated it. Has contemplated it without pulling any punches.

Dean bridles at the family dig, but even he can recognise this as an issue the angel's taken a personal stake in, as one he shouldn't pick at.

"Uh," says Sam questioningly.

Dean closes his eyes, pinches at the bridge of his nose. "Where were we?"

"Smiting fallen angels," prompts Sam.

"Seems like if they evaded the search parties long enough, the angels left 'em alone. Apparently being kicked out of Heaven sucks enough."

Sam gives him a _nice paraphrasing_ look. Dean shrugs.

"Not to be a killjoy, but does any of this actually help you guys?" Jimmy's been a silent observer of the conversation thus far, and although it seems to Dean he's uncomfortable, Dean's not sure why.

"Sure," says Dean, brightly. "We can kill 'em just like the angels. Oh, wait, we can't, because we never figured out who was doing it."

In the back of his mind, Castiel is absolutely silent.

"Well," Sam sits back down, twirling a pen between his fingers, "I guess we could just parade Dean around town and see who takes off." Dean glares. "Okay, really, no. But it's good to know anyway. Every little bit of information might help, someday."

"Assuming we avoid the Apocalypse," puts in Jimmy.

Dean looks at Sam; they both shrug. "Yeah," they say, together.

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The problem with Jimmy is that they can't take him with them in case the banshee gets him, but they can't leave him behind in case the demons get him. And travelling around in a pack like a group of girls afraid to go to the bathroom alone is damn clumsy in a situation where they have absolutely no leads and have to cover a lot of ground. Not to mention they have no false IDs for him.

_Can't you just mind-wipe people to not see him, or something?_ asks Dean.

_Not without mind-wiping you too_, replies Castiel dryly. Dean wonders if this is the angel loosening up; he just can't tell anymore. Cas seems to see-saw from righteous dick to kind of almost sympathetic at the drop of a hat these days, and Dean's not sure whether he really is just that mercurial when you spend time with him for more than five minutes at a stretch, or whether it's a result of his forcing himself to toe the line that's been laid down to him. Dean strongly suspects the latter, and that's one of the main reasons he cuts the angel any slack.

They end up taking the bathroom pack approach. Jimmy stays in the car with a shotgun in his lap under his torn coat (which separates them far enough from the teenage girl scenario that Dean doesn't feel the need to worry about it).

He and Sam discover pretty damn quick that the morgue guys weren't exaggerating when they said no common links. Apart from the fact that only two of the men were acquainted at the most minor level, they have no common ties. No connections with their jobs, clubs, shopping spots, other activities, or even hobbies. No commonality in age, relationships, homes, clothes or features. Apart from Bill Stanford, they might have been any four random Joes chosen off Main Street.

"So," says Dean as they get back in the car, Jimmy sitting with morose attention in the back, "we have no clues, no leads, no ideas, no pipe dreams, and if it weren't for Bill turning up on the butcher's bill –" and Castiel's unsubstantiated confidence in it being a banshee, which he doesn't mention – "I'd be ready to write this off as some freak heart thing. Thoughts?" he asks, lightly.

"Apart from Bill, who was almost certainly killed as a hunter and a threat rather than a regular victim, the dead men did have _one _thing in common," says Sam, unfolding his crisp map. He's drawn all over it in marker. Four colours for the four resident victims. Each colour has two circles – home and work – and a wide box connecting the two – possible routes between them. There's a few blocks of convergence between all four, where the colours mix into an ugly mud brown. Sam taps the square. Dean stares at him.

"You're kidding, right? It's practically downtown, everyone in this town must go through there!"

"Yeah, well, that's all we've got."

"So, what, you wanna walk the neighbourhood alone and hope it picks you?"

"Not really." Sam folds up the map and tucks it away in the glove box.

Dean sighs. "We're gonna have to troll the neighbourhood together, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

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It's only when they're on their way to downtown that the problems with "trolling the town" with a three man team comprising a civilian, an unwilling half-angel and an unwilling half-demon – Dean regrets leaving Hollywood again, he could make millions with this stuff – become apparent. Neither Dean or Jimmy can search, and Sam can't cover much ground on his own.

"Admit it, we're seriously up the creek," says Dean, looking to his brother who shrugs, face locked in a grimace.

"I don't know. I guess I could go poking around after all," he says reluctantly, staring out the windows at the grey street.

Now that it's looking more and more like an option – like the only option – it's looking less and less appealing. Banshees are something you sneak up on, not something you let sneak up on you – once they've got the upper hand, you're done.

"Yeah, well, let's hold off on premeditated suicide for the time being." Dean pulls out onto a main road, one that according to Sam's art project will take them through the Rectangle of Doom.

It's a good name for what turns out to be a really boring part of town mostly made up of the usual little stores you get wherever a lot of people converge – newspaper stands, convenience stores, delis and coffee shops. Some retail, mostly no-name outfits with mannequins displaying bland run-of-the-mill products. Really, just the mundane centre of a settlement on the awkward line between town and city.

They cruise through the dull streets at a loss, and unsurprisingly see absolutely nothing suspicious, while the sun dips lower and lower on the horizon behind the squat buildings. If they had had any enthusiasm to begin with, it has melted away by the second loop of the downtown area, Dean scowling, Sam staring out his window stiff-shouldered.

"Since we're going to be around for a couple of days," says Jimmy dryly from the back seat, "could we drop off my clothes at a dry cleaner's?"

Dean glances back in the mirror, eyes dropping to take in his, Dean's, clothes, and raises an eyebrow.

"My old clothes," elaborates Jimmy, thumbing towards the trunk.

Dean swallows his initial reply, that the only place it would pay to drop them off would be in a garbage can. He, at least, has the Impala to give him some sort of stability, insignificant and pathetic as that is. The only things Jimmy retains of his old life are the clothes he walked out the door in. Dean shrugs.

"Sure, if you see one."

At least it gives them something tangible to look for.

Dusk falls without them turning up any more clues to the banshee, no significant glances between Dean, Angel at Large, and the unknown Abomination. They do, on the other hand, turn up a dry cleaner's and Jimmy goes in with a few bills and his bundle of clothes while the brothers wait in the car and watch the street lights come on. In the cold air, the heat rises white and misty from the Impala's hood.

"This isn't going to work," says Dean, hands resting lightly on the wheel. Sam's staring out vaguely into the street, watching the thin crowd of passers-by. "We need another plan. A plan that doesn't involve live bait, preferably."

"I can look through what sources we have again, but I doubt there will be much. Banshee's are alive so there's no way to summon them, and there's nothing they're drawn to, except grief and fear. If it hadn't turned bad, we might have had a chance tracking it through the hospitals and graveyards." Sam keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, for all that's worth.

Dean gives him a look. "Dude, if it hadn't turned bad, we wouldn't be _trying_ to track it."

Sam shrugs, morose but unruffled. "Yeah, well, the only other option is to try to lure it out with a huge blaze of fear, and the only way I can think of to do _that_ is resorting to large-scale terrorism."

Dean nods, considering. Sam turns to stare at him.

"Dean, we are _not_ resorting to terrorism!"

"It's not like we'd actually hurt anyone," protests Dean. "Just… hold up a bank, or something."

"Yeah, because that worked out so well last time."

"In case you haven't noticed, we're kind of low on options here."

At this point the dry cleaner's door opening catches the yellow glow of the streetlights and reflects it into the front seat of the Impala, and they quiet down.

"No way, Dean," hisses Sam, watching Jimmy cross the pavement, arms empty this time.

"We're low on options, don't throw it out."

"I'm sure as hell throwing it out!"

Jimmy opens the back door, and Sam's forced to finish his refusal through his teeth, glaring at Dean who glares back and then pastes on an overly enthusiastic face as he turns to greet Jimmy.

"Hey! How'd it go?"

Jimmy gives him a slightly wary look. "Uh, fine. They'll be ready the day after tomorrow. If we're still around then, the lady said there's a tailor down the street."

Dean blinks at the concept of a tailor, but lets it drop.

"Well," he says, with brittle brightness, "time for dinner!"

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Dinner is the usual family restaurant fare. Sam sulkily orders a soup and salad; Jimmy works his way up to a toasted sandwich. Dean rolls his eyes at the wusses he's surrounded by and goes with the ribs.

"You're gonna have a heart attack by 40." Sam, official killjoy.

"Yeah, you just wish you had my metabolism."

"Nothing on this planet would want your metabolism if it meant eating like you."

Jimmy eats his sandwich staring at the plate in front of him, eyes dull as dusty tin.

----------------------------------------------------

The motels in a pretty quiet part of town, and tall trees line the street on either side of it, giving it a secluded feel. With Jimmy's back to be looked after, it's just easiest for him to bunk with Dean. Sam takes his bag and heads to his room 3 doors down – Dean, mired determinedly in the pre-90s when it comes to music, doesn't comment – to do some research.

Dean – or rather Castiel – sees to Jimmy's back, and it's routine enough now that neither of them needs to say anything. Jimmy lies back on his stomach on his bed when they're finished, stares at the pillow tucked under a lurid cover of pink and purple squares merging together to make a pattern more hideous than the sum of its parts.

Dean sorts through the contents of his pockets, balling up the receipts to be burned later – years of training prevents him from leaving a trail behind without his even thinking about it – and tosses the usual collection of lint, string, paper clips and mysterious pebble-like objects that always build up unobtrusively over time in any pocket.

He's just contemplating the contents of his wallet when out of nowhere Jimmy's voice breaks the silence.

"Can you ask him something?" says Jimmy, with a quiet gruffness and absolutely no preamble, causing Dean to start and glance over at the man in surprise.

"Uh," says Dean, but Cas stirs in the back of his mind, creeping slightly closer before he has time to address the angel. "He's listening."

Jimmy sits up in a prolonged rustle of cloth, facing the wall. Dean's shirt is bunched up just high enough at the hem that a sliver of white is visible. "Are they alright? My family?" The line of his spine is straight as a post, shoulders tense. His voice is sharp and constrained.

Dean's got answers of his own to that, but Castiel ruffles against the deep walls of his mind in an almost uncomfortable sensation probably intended to shut him up.

_Tell him_, rumbles the angel in an easier tone than Dean's heard him use in a long time, _that they were safe when I took residence here. My brothers and sisters will watch them in my absence._

"Yeah," repeats Dean. "They were before this whole mess, and he says he's got the other angels looking out for them. That's a hell of a lot more than most people can say," he adds in an aside.

Jimmy doesn't exactly relax, but the sharp lines of his shoulders smooth out somewhat.

"You know, you could have found that out yourself with a phone call." Dean ignores Castiel's heavy shifting; the angel, while he may be hinting at leaving well enough alone, hasn't come out to say it, and Dean's not in the habit of taking hints anyway.

"Yes," agrees Jimmy stiffly, without looking around.

"Look," begins Dean, and gets no further because Jimmy swivels around to face him. His eyes are flashing in the poor fluorescent lighting, and for an instant Dean forgets that he's not an angel, that he right now is much weaker than Dean himself. Very nearly recoils.

"Do you want to know what's worse than losing a parent? Losing one by stops and starts for years. Having a father who never calls, never writes. A father you're not even sure is alive, except when he shows up a year, two years, five years after the last time he did and knows _nothing about you_. A father who's there not when his family needs him, only when he needs them. A father who lingers around like a goddamn cancer, not a real parent at all but still keeping you from ever really settling down, finding closure. You can never have another father figure because he might come back tomorrow except he won't. And by the time he finally dies, he's already screwed your childhood to hell and back. I'd rather my family lose my in one clean break than put them through that; only a truly selfish bastard would do that to them."

Jimmy's up and across the room before Dean's really taken in his words.

"I'm going to get something to drink," he says, and slams out of the room, leaving Dean staring at the wrinkled covers on the bed opposite.

_We have none of us had easily knowable fathers_, whispers Castiel. _He, rather than losing faith as you did, found it. You will look after him_.

"You can still praise his faith, when this is what it's brought him?" Dean stands, ignoring the harder issue of the angel's unusual interest in his host for the easier kill and tucks a pistol into the waistband of his pants.

_Faith is the greatest of all virtues, no matter the price._

"You and I are never going to see eye to eye on that. Look what it's done to him. Hell, look what it's done to you, Cas!"

There's a prick of emotion that stabs straight to Dean's heart, and then the angel shifts abruptly, so heavily that Dean actually loses his balance and has to catch himself against a wall.

_Do not presume to know me._ The angel's harsh voice echoes through Dean's ears, louder than thunder, louder than a train over a bridge, louder than he's ever known it, and Dean rocks and presses his hands to his temples. He's still grimacing through the aftershocks when the door opens, doesn't even hear it.

"Dean, Jimmy just – Dean? Hey, Dean! What's wrong? Dean?!"

He feels Sam's hands on his arms, tries to take a step forward and misjudges his balance completely. Sam catches him and guides him to the bed, sets him down on the edge. He cracks open his eyes and squints up at Sam, squatting in front of him. "Dean? What's wrong? Is it Cas?"

"Damn straight it's Cas," he hisses. And then, rubbing at his temples, "Fuck…"

It's a few more seconds before the final echoes die away and he can recognise that Castiel has retreated into a tighter huddle than he's ever taken, has covered up his light as if to relieve the eyes of a migraine-sufferer. When he speaks it's in a smooth, cool voice that nevertheless thrums uncomfortably against Dean's still-sensitive ears. However, all traces of the earlier storm are gone.

_I apologize for my outburst. If you wish me to go, I will._

"I just wish you'd learn to turn down the goddamn volume." Dean presses his fingers firmly against the bridge of his nose, ache lessening somewhat.

_I will try_. There's almost no emotion in Castiel's voice; it's clear he has retreated into the coldest, most distant form he knows.

"Dean?" Sam's watching him with his _I'm concerned but not worried, definitely, not worried at all _face.

"Just a little dust-up. We're all good. I think."

Castiel is silent, and Dean doesn't feel any guilt from the angel, but he also doesn't feel any of the previous anger. Or, more tellingly, the stab of pain he picked up for just an instant before Cas tried to bring the house down.

Dean's really starting to hate Castiel's brethren. He's also starting to know that the angel's nowhere as firmly grounded as he'd like them to believe. He tries to wipe the thought from his mind as soon as he realises it, but it's probably too late. Nevertheless, when Castiel speaks next he makes no mention of it.

_Dean, Jimmy_, prompts the angel quietly, and Dean looks up, hand dropping away. Sam catches his intention, and stands to turn toward the door. "Right, Dean, I just saw Jimmy heading out towards the corner, looking like hell. What _happened_?"

Dean's on his feet now too, though, balance finally kicking in. "I'll tell you later. C'mon, we'd better go grab him. He said he was going to get a drink," he adds, remembering.

They hurry out into the biting night, cold wind clawing in under jackets too thin for this weather, and make for the end of the row of rooms and the covered vending machine area where the artificial neon lights have lit the darkness in cheery tones of red and blue.

The covered vending machine area which is completely empty.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_Oh shit_, is Dean's first thought, striding quickly to the other side of the vending machine area to glance out down the dark sidewalk. There's no sign of Jimmy there, either.

Sam steps back in front of the Pepsi machine from the parking lot, neon lights painting his face bizarre shades of red and blue. "I don't see him. This is bad, Dean. What were you guys talking about?"

"Family stuff. He was pissed, but he knows better than to bolt. I think," Dean adds, remembering the last time, waking up to an empty bed and a guilty Sam, which was fun except for the demon bloodhounds on the man's trail.

"So someone grabbed him? The demons?" Sam runs a hand through his hair, looking around again.

"Could be, or the banshee? Shit, I don't know. Like one's better than the other." Demons mean torture and a slow death, the banshee a much more immediate one, and Dean really doesn't know which to hope for.

This is their life. Stuck between one big rock and a hard place, with choices about 1,000 times more crappy than the usual kind.

_Stop chattering_, orders Castiel from out of nowhere, sounding terse.

"What?"

Sam turns to him. "What?"

"Not you –" _What?_

_Just stand still and be quiet_.

Dean starts to think of a reply to that, and then tries not to instead. Sam's giving him the raised eyebrows of inquisition, but he ignores them. In the back of his mind Castiel is rustling quietly, a soft feathery feeling. It tickles, just a little, and Dean catches himself flinching. Sam, misinterpreting, takes a step closer.

"Dean?"

Dean waves him off. _Cas?_

There's a slight shift, which Dean takes as a hand held up for more time, and then the angel relaxes. _There,_ he says, _he's there._

_Uh?_ asks Dean, with no idea where "there" is.

_To your left, approximately 100 yards away._

Dean glances to his left: it's the stucco wall of the motel. He hurries around it on the sidewalk, skirts the building beside the road. Sam follows behind, and when Dean glances back he has his gun in his hands. Not a bad idea.

On the other side of the motel is a bank of poplars, the tall trees standing spread fairly wide on sandy soil. The light's bad, and if Jimmy's in the sparse wood he can't see him.

_In there?_ He asks, glancing up ahead.

_Yes_, says Castiel, more calmly now.

_Alone?_

_I see only what you see_, answers the angel.

_So how do you know he's in there? I can't see squat_.

_He's mine. There is a difference._

_Oookay_. This is not the time to debate angelic possession – or angelic possessiveness, even if it's suddenly gotten extremelybizarre. _So where is he?_

_Five yards back from the tree line, roughly in front of you. He is standing behind a large poplar._

Dean starts forwards, and realises that if he can see them at all, there's no way Jimmy can tell who they are in the dark. "Jimmy? It's just us." A few seconds pass slowly, his heart keeping time in his chest, and then there's a rustling as Jimmy makes his way down out of the trees.

"How'd you know he was there?" hisses Sam from behind him. Dean waves a postponing hand.

"Who're you hiding from?" he asks as the man comes closer, walking cautiously as if expecting to be jumped from the shadows.

"I don't know. I was getting a drink from the machine and this old lady came up out of nowhere. She couldn't've been more than 4'10". But when she turned to look at me… I don't know, something in the way she was looking at me, or something, scared the hell out of me. I took off."

"You ran from a little old lady?" Dean's run from some pretty weird shit, but old people?

"Anyone could be a demon," retorts Jimmy defensively. His face isn't clear in the darkness, but he shifts his weight uncertainly with a rustle of fabric. "But… it wasn't how she looked. She just felt … wrong. I knew she was dangerous."

"Before, when the demons attacked your family," Sam breaks in, coming up to stand next to Dean, "was it like that?"

A glimmer of movement; Jimmy shaking his head. "No. I didn't feel anything at all then. If they hadn't had the black eyes, I wouldn't've known."

"Could be the banshee…" muses Sam. "Some do have the ability to alternate between three forms, and one's an old woman. Did you recognise her from today? Seen her before?"

"No. I don't remember seeing any real old ladies. And not her, anyway."

_Cas? _Asks Dean, glancing around. If anyone was – or, for that matter, is – here, he can't tell.

_It is possible that the extended time spent as my vessel has affected him. Allowed him to sense things he wouldn't normally be able to. And banshees do have a strong presence for us._

_If it was the banshee, and he noticed it, could it have noticed him?_

_It's possible. But from what he says, he was the one to notice and flee, not her_.

_Good point_. "You noticed something weird about her. Did she notice anything weird about you?"

"Not that I saw. But I took off pretty quick."

"Right." Dean looks to Sam. He thinks he sees a flash of his brother's eyes, but it's hard to tell. There's nothing more to do out here. "Let's get back inside. We'll stay here for now, and head out early tomorrow." No point laying any more plans out in the open where anyone might be listening. He waits for Jimmy to catch up to them, and turns back towards the faint light of the motel rooms shining through dusty curtains.

They end up back in the shared room again, Sam at his table again, Dean and Jimmy on their respective beds. Sam leans back in his chair until the back's up against the wall, stretches his legs out under the cheap table. "I was scanning through the literature earlier," he says, glancing at Jimmy before focusing on Dean. "I wasn't at it for too long, but I didn't find anything new. Still no way to lure it out."

Dean doesn't answer; his thoughts have wound back to the earlier dust-up in the room. He's never had to get along with anyone other than Sam – and Dad, of course – for more than an hour or two at the longest, and it's occurring to him now that he's not really too sure how to go about maintaining any sort of normal relationship. It never mattered before if he ended up storming out on everyone he met; he'd never have to see them again.

_You ever notice that Dad had a falling out with pretty much everyone?_ Sam's words, years old now, come back out of nowhere and play themselves on repeat. Dean loved Dad more than anyone except Sam, but he sure as hell never wanted to be the man. Never wanted to be like him.

He wonders now, whether he already is.

"Do they change their targets?" asks Jimmy, startling Dean out of his thoughts. Sam, too, from the look on his face. "Do they stick with one person, or do they just take whoever's around?"

Sam blinks, considering. "Uh… I'm not sure. Anyone targeted by a banshee ends up dead, unless it's a hunter and then the banshee doesn't have the chance to try again. Before they go rogue, they usually stick with one victim, one family, until they've drained all the grief they can. That could translate to one target at a time. But it's not a certainty. Why?" The light of recognition flashes in Sam's eyes, and he answers his own question just as Dean does in his thoughts. "Because it's after you."

"We don't know the old lady was a banshee. Maybe you just spooked. You were worked up, and you know the demons're after you and the banshee's around. Maybe you were just jumping at shadows," says Dean.

Jimmy shrugs. "That could be, but … she felt wrong," he repeats, shaking his head.

_Ask him_, says Castiel suddenly, so close he seems to be whispering right in Dean's ear, _whether she felt like snow._

_What?_

_Did she feel like snow? _repeats Castiel, impatiently.

_What the hell does snow feel like?_ says Dean, rolling his eyes. But he asks anyway. "Cas wants to know whether she 'felt like snow?'" he asks, making the quotation marks clear with his voice.

Jimmy's eyebrows crease as he considers. "No," he says, at last. "More like… mist, I guess. Cold, but…" he struggles for a word, jaw clenched, then loses it. "No, I don't know."

_So, not a banshee?_

_No, it was a test. Banshees often do feel like mist. Like cold and grief and loss. Perhaps it is a remnant of their ancestor's pain. I don't know. _There's a hint of … not pain, exactly, but something like loneliness in the angel's tone. Dean doesn't know how to deal with that, and so steers away from it.

"Great," he says aloud, and then at Sam's look elaborates, "Cas says they feel like mist. Which means you probably saw her. Which means she might be after you. What is up with this bitch, seriously? First Stanford, now you. How is she picking us off?"

"But Jimmy's not a hunter," points out Sam, and Dean gives him a _duh_ look. "Right," says Sam, agreeing. "No one would mistake him for one, especially not something which has probably been hunted before, and must be expecting more hunters after killing Stanford. It probably picked Jimmy as a regular victim."

"Well, that's good to know. It's not trying to kill him because he's after it, just because it wants to eat him. I'm so relieved."

Sam gives him a look. Jimmy just seems worried. Dean sighs. "Really. This is helpful how?"

"She must have seen him sometime today and picked him as her target, Dean. All we have to do is –"

"Backtrack and confront every single person he met today? Besides, what if it was just a random coincidence?"

Sam shrugs. "I didn't say it was a good plan."

"I still like my idea," grumbles Dean.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, we're still not knocking over a bank." He stands, stretching his back. "I'll see if I can turn up any more. If not… we'll have to backtrack."

"Sounds fun." Dean stands to lock the door behind his brother.

"Uh," says Jimmy, from the far bed, and they turn to look at him. "She's probably still around, right? Waiting for me to go out alone? Why don't we just set a trap? We've got the bait," he adds, flatly.

"Were you listening to the part about how they're extremely dangerous? You don't want her after you. We'll find out who she is, and take care of her. You don't want to be involved," says Dean, gruffly.

"And if you can't? You said yourself it'll probably be impossible to find her by chasing down people I met today. What if she gives up on me and goes after someone else in the meantime?"

Castiel shuffles heavily, and Dean remembers his earlier injunction to look after his vessel. Dean feels his hackles raising; like he needs an angel to tell him what's right.

"Until we've exhausted our other options, we're not using bait. Not with a banshee. You wanna know how many people hunters have gotten killed – including themselves – trying to bait out a banshee? Too fucking many. No way. We're gonna find her, before she finds us." No more deaths on his hands. Not if he can help it.

Jimmy backs down, and Dean turns. Raises an eyebrow at Sam's expression: _What?_ Sam shakes his head.

"See you tomorrow," he says, stepping out side of the door.

"Yeah." Dean watches him walk down to his room, waits for him to shut the door before he shuts his own and locks it. Turns back to the quiet room, to Jimmy standing to head to the bathroom. "Hey, uh, about before…"

"Don't worry about it." Jimmy shrugs, and keeps going.

Probably, there's something else he should say. Probably, there's a better way to deal with things. Probably, there's a way to build relationships that doesn't involve a lot of silence on his part and forgiveness on the other. He doesn't know it, and even if he did, he's not sure he'd be up for it. He wanted to be a normal person, once. He knows now that he'll never be. The worst part is, he's not sure he still even wants it.

_It__'s not a sin to be different_, murmurs Castiel, and Dean is pretty sure what the angel means by sin is not what he means.

_Maybe, but that doesn__'t mean it's okay to be a heartless hard-nosed bastard._

_You aren__'t heartless, Dean. You have more compassion than most humans I've known._

_And how many is that? Two? Three?_

_Enough,_ answers Castiel softly, and there's a feeling of weight there, of a number bigger than Dean could imagine.

He wonders, for the first time, how many humans Castiel has known. How many generations he's seen born, grow, die. How many civilizations. How short human lives must seem to him, and how similar.

Seen in that light, Uriel's stance is not so incomprehensible. It's deplorable, disgusting, unforgivable, but… he suddenly finds himself wondering, with as many lives as Castiel has watched over, how he can still feel any compassion at all for their tiny lives.

_You never give yourself enough credit_, whispers the angel.

_Cas_, says Dean, voice gritty, and then stops. Because there's no way to put what he's feeling into words, and even if he could he wouldn't, and it doesn't matter because since he's already in his head, _Cas already knows_.

_I__'ve never before met a human who pitied angels_, says Cas, soft with something like mild wonder.

_Yeah, well. Don't get used to it_. Dean flops down onto his bed and closes his eyes.

-------------------------------------------

He dreams of light and warmth and contentment. Of belonging. He doesn't mention it when he wakes.

Jimmy's still asleep, the first time the man hasn't been awake before him, which is probably a sign his back is well on the way to being patched up. Dean takes the opportunity to shower and change, while rolling their options around in his head like bowling balls. None of them are really acceptable. The low-risk plans have little likelihood of success, while the high-risk ones have little chance of all of them surviving finding the thing.

Of course, the one plan which probably would work and involve little risk on their part, would be to simply wait out Jimmy's back and then set Castiel on the thing. The problem with that, as Jimmy pointed out before, is the number of victims it might rack up while they're sitting around on their asses. And that's completely unacceptable.

_Cas?_ he asks, pulling his shirt on and staring at himself in the still-steamy bathroom mirror. _Could we speed up the work on Jimmy's back?_

Castiel unfolds slightly, as if to show he's listening. It's several seconds before he answers, though. _Yes_, he replies at last, in a considering tone. _There is still some room to push the limits. However, the more strength I expend, the more you will lose. To heal him faster will weaken you. Is it worth the trade-off? _Castiel's tone is neutral and if he has a preference Dean can't decipher it; it's clear he's leaving the choice to the hunter.

_If we pushed it to the limit, could we do it in one go?_

_No._ The answer is immediate and absolute. _It would require at least two sessions, perhaps three_.

_So we'd be ahead by a day._

_A day in which you would be bedridden, and she might come for Jimmy_, points out the angel, possibly revealing his choice. Dean can't say he blames him. He pushes back from the sink, hissing between his teeth, and pads into the motel room. Jimmy's sitting on the bed now, dressed in his new clothes. Dean's not sure whether it's stranger to see him in completely unfamiliar clothes, or clothes which while familiar still aren't at all right. At the sight of Dean he turns, exposing his back.

"Hold up," says Dean, and walks over to the table to snag his phone. Dials Sam, and waits for him to pick up.

"Yeah?"

"You awake?" Dean drops down onto the end of his bed, glancing at the door.

"Uh, yeah." Smart-ass.

"Come on over," Dean replies, and cuts the line. Waits a minute before getting up to unlock the door. Sam walks in a few seconds later, hair wet and face somewhat clawed from a quick shave.

"What is it?" Sam takes up his now-usual chair, glances from Dean to Jimmy.

"You find anything last night?" Dean knows the answer before he hears it; if Sam had, he'd have been over already.

"No, nothing new. No one's ever really wanted to summon death omens, you know?" Sam shakes his hair out of his face.

"Makes sense." He pauses, then continues in a gruffer tone. "Cas says we could probably speed up the work on Jimmy's back. Maybe be finished by tonight or tomorrow morning."

"Great," says Sam. Jimmy doesn't move, but Dean has the impression he has tensed up.

"Yeah. Problem is, it'd probably lay me out for a couple of days. So the question is, is it worth losing a day, or maybe 24 hours?"

There are a few beats of silence, Sam's expression darkening, Jimmy straightening gradually like a flower twisting towards the sun.

"Once he's back," says Sam, twisting to stare into Dean's eyes as if looking for the angel there, "will he be able to find it and deal with it?"

_Cas?_

But the angel's already answering. _My orders expressly forbid meddling in human affairs where a seal is not involved_, says Castiel flatly, blowing all their assumptions, all Dean's assumptions, right out of the water. It actually shocks Dean into silence; a hot, bitter silence that begins to crack like over-heated glass as his anger wells up.

"Dean?" Sam's watching his face with concern. He pays him no mind.

_Fuck, Castiel, _he hisses finally, chest tight and jaw aching with the pressure of his teeth gritting together, _I can't take anymore of this. Make up your goddamn mind. All this blowing hot one minute, cold the next; I'm fed up._

In the back of his thoughts he knows he's not being fair, knows Castiel has his reasons, knows the angel's probably even less pleased with himself than Dean. But right now, Dean's simply had enough of having his chain yanked. Of being pulled closer half the time, and then pushed away carelessly the rest.

In his corner, Castiel feels stiff and stony, is holding himself still with such tension that Dean can feel it, feel him shivering against the back of his mind.

_Either you're a friend, or you're not. You can't just turn it on when it's convenient to you._

_I don't have it in me to be a "friend," _replies Castiel stiffly. _And even if I did, that's not – _

_Not what? Not according to your orders? You're an _angel_, Castiel, one of the strongest things on this _planet_, and you can't make your own decisions?_

There's a pause, and then Castiel stretches, gently, carefully. And, appearing out of nowhere, Dean can suddenly feel the power there, enough power to crush him to dust with just a flick of the tip of a wing. Enough power to level a city, to turn back time, to reach down into Hell and raise souls. More power than he could literally imagine.

_To you_, says Castiel, in a voice like an arctic wind, _an angel is power and light and righteousness. _There's a breath of wind, and that sense of power drains away into nothingness, leaving just Castiel's usual heavy presence folding itself gracefully back together. _To us, an angel is defined by one thing, and one thing alone: his obedience. The thing you hunt now, monsters like Lucifer, the horror you endured for forty years, they are a result of those in our ranks who could not obey. When you ask me to disobey, Dean, you ask me to become an abomination, and an abomination with the power of an angel is a terrible thing. It is our obedience alone which keeps us from evil. An evil which you alone in this wide world can begin to comprehend. _

Dean rocks backwards as if punched in the gut, stunned. There's a nearly physical pain, and he's not sure whether it's something he's channelling from Castiel or a simpler form of empathy. His automatic reaction is to hit back, to strike out to cover his shock. But he can't think of a response to that, can't think of one single thing. Castiel's words drive down like steel girders on his shoulders, and whether the angel intended it or not, the one thing on his mind is his time spent tearing souls apart. Turning people into demons with his own two hands.

He can still hear the screaming. God, he'll never be able to block it out, or the smell of burning flesh –

"Dean?"

Sam's voice breaks into his thoughts, shatters the memories like a mirror and they drop away, still cutting as they go. Sam's standing in front of him, hands resting heavy on his shoulders – the girders? – staring at him with a mixture of fear and hostility. Classic over-protective Sammy. He'll be wanting to give hugs, soon. "Dean, you okay? You look – you're not looking so hot."

Dean clears his throat – it doesn't taste of brimstone, definitely, not one bit – with a sound like gravel churning underfoot.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just having a little chat."

"About what, baby eating? Seriously, you look –"

"I can imagine," cuts in Dean roughly. And then, "I just – I need to talk to Cas for a minute."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," says Sam quietly, the kind of quiet meant to keep people from overhearing. "I don't know if you've noticed, Dean, but your personalities don't exactly mesh. And the last thing you need is to get in a fight with him inside your head."

"Thanks for the newsflash," returns Dean sourly.

"Look, it might just be better to keep your head down until this thing is over, okay?"

"Not my style."

"Just because you've been a stubborn idiot in the past doesn't mean you have to continue the trend," says Sam, exasperated now.

"Why change a winning strategy?" growls Dean. He flops back on the bed, legs hanging over the edge. "Don't get your panties in a twist," he adds to Sam's noise of annoyance, and drapes an arm over his eyes.

_Sam thinks you're gonna boil my brains out_, he says, as though the angel hasn't been listening the entire time.

_It's not an entirely unfounded fear._

_I was kind of hoping for something more reassuring_. This is all he can do, all he knows. Screw up, then joke around and hope somehow things will fix themselves. And figure that, if they don't, they weren't worth it anyway.

The angel sighs, a soft sound like wind whispering through grass. _I cannot be the ally you want me to be, Dean. I'm not a wild animal to be tamed, nor am I an opponent to be won over. As long as our interests lie together, I will fight along side you. But I won't do your job for you, and I won't come at your call._

_I'm not asking for your goddamn loyalty, _bursts out Dean, barely waiting for the angel to finish_. Hell, if it's so unfathomable to you, I won't even ask for your friendship. All I want's your help. A fair trade. I'm helping you get your vessel back – if it comes down to it, you help us with the banshee. Or are you going to tell me angels don't make bargains?_

The angel is silent for a minute, unmoving. And then, _What_, he asks softly, wryly, in a tone completely different from his earlier ones, _do you think prayers are?_

Dean blinks beneath his sleeve, and then sputters. _I'm not praying to you!_

_No_, answers the angel in the same wry voice, _you are bargaining with me. Alright. It's a fair request, and your other conditions were minimal enough to allow it. But, _he adds, voice deepening towards thunder, _I can't do anything to aid you while here. Until I return to my vessel, you can't count on any help from me._

_Until you return to Jimmy,_ corrects Dean sharply.

There is a pause, and he wonders if he's pushed too hard. Doesn't care if he has, because this is important, dammit. Then, with a light rustle:

_Until I return to Jimmy_, concedes the angel.

_Damn straight,_ thinks Dean, and opens his eyes.

"The deal is," he says, sitting up and taking in Sam watching him with concern, Jimmy with a sort of dark curiosity, "Cas'll help us if we need it, when we get him back. Like I said, if we push it, it could be tonight.

Sam shifts, crosses his arms. Jimmy doesn't move, but Dean thinks his eyes harden, slightly.

"And if not?" asks Sam.

"Maybe tomorrow evening, more likely the day after."

"If the lady Jimmy saw last night was the banshee, it's hunting again. If it doesn't go for him, it might go after someone else. If it does, it'll probably be tonight. We're not sure, even if you push it, that you can have Jimmy's back fixed by then." Sam's tapping his fingers on his elbow in an irritating tattoo.

"If we don't, can we find it today?" asks Dean, mostly rhetorically.

"Do your entire lives revolve around damned if you do, damned if you don't scenarios," asks Jimmy, somewhere between horrified and bemused.

Dean glances at Sam, then back at him again.

"Pretty much," they answer together.

Dean looks back to his brother, then shrugs. "We'll do things the way we've always done them. It's gotten us this far."

Sam shrugs, nods.

As if here is somewhere they wanted to be.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Notes: Sorry about the slow updates. One more chapter, which I can't guarantee but _hope_ to have up in a couple of days. Life is pretty hectic lately – I'm getting ready to change countries of residence – and I really hope to be able to get it up before my moving takes up all my time, but yeah. Can't guarantee.

A kind thanks to all the reviewers; you're definitely keeping me working!

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Dean – or rather Castiel – sees to Jimmy's back, and although they don't turn it up to 11, he pushes the angel to give it a little more gas, and ends up feeling like he's got jello for legs.

Sam and Jimmy go together to notify the desk of their imminent check out – if the thing _is_ hunting Jimmy, they don't need to give it any more advantages than it's already got – largely to see if Angel Boy gets any vibes off the lady behind the counter.

He doesn't.

_It's quite possible_, points out Castiel, universal wet blanket, while Sam and Jimmy back up in the background, _that he can only sense her when her malignancy is bent towards him_.

_Uh_, says Dean, eloquently.

_If she were exerting her powers_, clarifies the angel. _Feeding from his terror._

_Great_. He's lying back on the scratchy coverlet, head spinning slow as a toddler's merry-go-round. He feels kind of high, if you could get high on angel juice. _And if not, it'll just seem like an ordinary person_?

_Most likely_.

Dean sighs. It figures.

"Hey, Dean? We're ready to go."

Dean opens his eyes and sits up, waits for the light-headedness to fade. Sam's got his bag over one shoulder, is standing by the end of the bed watching him with dark eyes. Jimmy's loitering over by the door with the plastic bag holding all his possessions in one hand.

"Right." Dean stumbles out to the car and slams down so heavily into the passenger seat he can feel the suspension shuddering while Sam stows the bags. It's not really so bad though, just an irritating inability to focus on things except those in his peripheral vision, and the shakes. He already feels better than he did 20 minutes ago.

"First things first," says Sam, sliding into the driver's seat and slotting the keys into the ignition. Dean winces, just slightly. It's been a while since he rode shot-gun; after he got back, driving the Impala was one of the few simple pleasures he had left, and he clung to it jealously. Sam, after months of driving his brother's car solo, didn't exactly complain. "We find a new place to crash, and get some breakfast."

Dean shrugs. Jimmy, as usual, says nothing.

It's late for them, nearly 10 with the arguing and the fall-out from dealing with Jimmy's back, and the town is bustling in a steady, languid way. Streets not lined but at least peppered with drivers and pedestrians headed about whatever the daily routine is down in Marshall. Sam cuts through the downtown core – as if the thing's going to have hung out a sign saying Evil Here overnight – on the way to the outskirts on the south side where there's another crop of cheap motels.

Dean and Jimmy wait in the car while Sam books a couple of rooms in a silence that, if not really companionable is at least not overly awkward. It's not that cold, but even the few minutes without the car's heater going makes a noticeable difference in the temperature, and Dean shifts to draw his coat closer. Wonders whether Jimmy misses the lined trench coat.

Sam returns with a pair of adjoining rooms – apparently the busy season hasn't spread to all corners of Marshall yet – and news of a good diner down the road. Dean's feeling enough like himself again to be steering straight towards ravenous, and they take off.

Breakfast – bacon and eggs for him, Sammy giving him that "heart-attack before 40 look"; toast and fruit for Mr. Health Conscience; yogurt and muesli for Jimmy, appearing suddenly out of nowhere hard in the running for the title of Hippy Meals Queen (Sam may need to pick up his game). The diner's laid-back and homey, and although the middle-aged waitresses are a disappointment in the looks department, they take well enough to the group of hearty-eating young men to provide free refills on the coffee. Dean is not above playing it up for free eats, and has them eating out of his hand by the time they're getting ready to hit the road. Sam can glare all he wants, it's totally worth it for the free cookie.

Unfortunately, the free cookie turns out to be the highlight of their day.

They make a careful tour of all the places they visited the day before, Dean hanging in the Impala and considering some touch-ups for her, new paint, a good thorough waxing maybe, while Sam takes Jimmy banshee hunting. Or rather, banshee spotting. They aren't even necessarily expecting him to notice anything. They just need a list of possibilities.

The morgue is a dead write-off (Sam gives him a look, the prude) and they steer clear of the police station – it's not like it's one of the two cops they met. They stop by the clothes store and the pharmacy, mark down Suspicious Used Clothes Lady on their list despite her not tweaking Jimmy's radar. They have a late lunch at the same diner they had dinner at the night before, Sam taking notes in a tiny book while Dean munches on his burger. Jimmy watches the waitresses from beneath his lashes, head bowed, but shakes his head as they leave.

They end up in a cracked and uneven parking lot behind the empty shell of what used to be some kind of grocery store, awnings long gone and even the painted name sign torn away, while dusk settles in around them. The afternoon has been frittered away with Sam and Jimmy going door to door downtown pretending to browse unoriginal and indifferent goods while really scoping out the salesladies and Dean slowly working his way through the corners of his cassette box and labelling the tapes that need to be replaced.

"Let's hear it," says Dean, staring up at the Impala's slightly speckled roof.

"Well, we've got a definite three women Jimmy actually interacted with yesterday – the clothes lady and two waitresses at the diner. After that, we have no clues at all. It could be any one of the store salesladies who saw him pass by, or even just someone completely random who happened to be in the area."

"Uh huh. You didn't pick up on anything?" asks Dean, glancing in the mirror. Jimmy shrugs, shakes his head.

"No, nothing. But, we're really sure this thing could be changing its shape? I mean, shouldn't we just be looking for an old lady?"

Sam picks up the question, splitting his glance between his brother and the back seat. "The original lore is pretty clear that they appear generally in one of three shapes, and in the past that was mostly taken to mean that they come in one of three kinds."

"We're not talking about M'n'M's here, Sam," says Dean, earning himself a glare.

"But," continues Sam, "hunters have had theories for decades that rather than three kinds, it's just one single banshee taking on whichever shape would be most useful. I mean, they're not exactly numerous, so it would be odd that three different kinds popped up often enough to be recorded. Much more likely, there are just a few switching between shapes."

"Makes sense," says Dean. Jimmy just stares blankly – despite his crash course in the supernatural, it seems the idea of shape shifting being more logical something, _anything_, else is still boggling.

Dean used to wonder sometimes what it must be like to live in a world where the most normal solution is usually true. A world where he'd go out to dinner with the family, mow the lawn, eat sandwiches in a real kitchen.

He doesn't anymore. Hasn't for two years. And just like that, Castiel's staring over his shoulder again. As if waiting for the most opportune moment to screw with him.

_We all dream, Dean_. The tone is probably meant to be comforting, but Dean doesn't care. He's suddenly and deeply furious at the angel's silent intrusion into his personal thoughts. At the angel's peeping into secrets he keeps even from Sam. Even, some of the time, from himself.

_Even you?_ he snarls, scathing and sarcastic.

_Even me_. Castiel's voice is hardly a whisper.

_Not me. Not anymore. What's the point? The world'll never run out of things to hunt; there'll never be an end to this job. And when one the things gets me eventually, all I've got to look forward to is going Downstairs again._

_Neither of those points are as certain as you take them for._

_Don't you _dare_ try to string me along!_ shouts Dean gruffly in his own head, hands fisting, until the echoes of his own voice almost drown out the angel's presence. _Don't you promise me peace and miracles and forgiveness. Not after all the self-righteous bullshit I've seen you pull. Not after the lives I've seen you destroy._

Castiel holds himself still, hard and fast and bland as stone, and says nothing. Sam's chattering on about other possible ways the banshee could have picked out Jimmy, oblivious to Dean's sudden rage.

"Screw this," says Dean, turning over the engine with a harsh movement and startling Sam into silence. "Let's get something to eat."

Sam gives him a searching look, and then turns away without saying anything.

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They have dinner at some café downtown which Jimmy points out, the fact surprising enough to make Dean agree despite the lack of grease on the menu. It's mostly a soup and sandwich deal, one of those trendy little bistros with white tiled walls interspersed with colourful little scenes that look like they were painted by five year-olds, and crammed with a surfeit of wooden surfaces. They sit down in the back, near a scene of what is probably supposed to be some children frolicking but actually looks like two red dogs and a flamingo engaged in seriously questionable activities.

Jimmy heads off to the can after ordering – soup and sandwich, shockingly – leaving Sam to give him the questioning eyebrows.

"Well?" he adds, Interrogator Extraordinaire, when Dean ignores the brows.

"What?" Dean's busy building a card house out of sugar packets. He mixes in the three kinds for a kind of hideous ginger-bread house effect; pink artificial sweetner in between regular white and brown sugar tan. The brown sugar's heavier, and keeps flattening the others.

"Wanna tell me what that was about before in the parking lot? You and Cas fighting again? Seriously, Dean, can't the two of you get along for five minutes?"

"We got along fine and dandy all damn day while you and Holy Tax Boy were out there turning up squat – nice job with that, by the way."

Sam neatly sidesteps the attempt to pick a fight in that irritating way of his. Dean's never really understood how Sam can always manage it with him, but never once did with Dad. "So you were going at it. What was it about this time?"

"Doesn't matter. Another day or two and he'll be outta here." He hopes Castiel's listening.

"Yeah, if you don't goad him into frying your brains first."

"I'll work on it."

Sam gives him a concerned look, but Jimmy's coming back and they drop it. The food arrives a minute later, and the conversation becomes scattered and mundane. They've been prodding and picking at their failure all day; by common unspoken agreement they let the matter drop for a while. No point in driving themselves crazy over it.

Dinner isn't too bad, actually (except for the lack of grease), and they end up lingering by the register while they – okay, he – get a sandwich wrapped up to take away in case of midnight munchies, and Sam takes his turn in the bathroom. Dean's vaguely contemplating stopping somewhere to pick up something of the pie variety before heading back to the motel for another session of Plans That Go Nowhere when he automatically tenses in reaction to Jimmy startling next to him.

The man's staring at the wall behind the register, and then turns in surprise. Dean follows his gaze to the clock – it reads 6:55.

"What?" he says, turning to follow the man's gaze again – across the street this time.

"Dammit, my laundry," Jimmy says, heading for the door with a really boring rustling of his canvas coat. Man really needs his trench.

"What?" says Dean, again, and then remembers. "Just pick it up tomorrow."

"If I get it now, I can get the coats fixed up tomorrow. The cleaners is right across the road." He's already heading outside the door, a cool breeze slipping in through the open door.

"Hey, wait, I'll go with –"

At which point the girl coming up from the back with his sandwich, and begins ringing up the meal. Dean freezes, locked between two choices, and watches Jimmy glance both ways and then jog across the street to the dry cleaners. Someone behind the window is just turning out the neon Open sign.

"That's $30.45," says the girl, as the register finishes beeping. Dean pulls a handful of bills from his wallet and gives them to her, attention divided between her and Jimmy. There's a cough from his blind side, and he startles and turns to see Sam standing there watching him with amusement. It fades as he looks around.

"Hey, where's Jimmy?"

"He ran across to get his laundry." Dean reaches out to grab his sandwich and change. Turns back just in time to see Sam's face shift from thoughtful to horrified, and then his brother is slamming out the door and sprinting out into the street with a curse.

Dean knows the job, and Sam, enough not to spend any time standing around staring. He follows immediately, dodging the slow two-lane traffic without much trouble. Sam's already at the door to the laundry, and shoves it open so forcefully Dean hears the little bell give a thudding jingle as it's thrown into the wall above the door.

He peers over Sam's shoulder to see Jimmy and the counter attendant both staring at him in shock, the former completely unmauled, the latter completely normal-looking minus the fear that's flooding in with Sam's entrance.

"Uh, sorry," says Sam breathlessly. Jimmy, apparently catching their line of thought, glances towards the lady behind the counter and then shakes his head slightly. "My mistake. I thought – uh, never mind." He waits for the lady to hand Jimmy his plastic-wrapped clothes – quite hurriedly – and then they all step out together. The bell sounds distinctly flat as it rattles behind them.

"What was that about?" asks Dean, as they head down the dark street to the Impala. The streetlights are on, but they're set wide apart here, and a few have burnt out. He keeps his eyes on the concrete, looking for patches of ice.

"The three forms," says Sam, glancing back at the dry cleaner's. "One's a washerwoman."

"Huh," says Dean. Behind them, Jimmy follows in silence, plastic wrap rustling in the cool evening breeze.

"Yeah. I mean, obviously it could still be her," points out Sam, glancing both ways absently as they cross a narrow street becoming an alley.

"Actually," says Jimmy from behind them, "she's not the woman that was there yesterday. They must have changed shifts."

"Surprised they get enough business to maintain that." Dean looks up and down the empty street.

There's a dim jingling behind them, and they look back. The woman's leaning out the door of the cleaners, holding something wrapped in plastic. "Mr. Novak, your coat!"

Jimmy looks down at the clothes in his arms and shuffles hurriedly through the layers of plastic and fabric – just his dark suit – and curses. Turns and jogs back while the brothers wait.

"So, you think there're any pie joints open around here?"

"You need to cut back, dude."

They watch as Jimmy meets the woman, who hands him his coat. She's holding a slip of paper, presumably a receipt, and a pen, while her red hair blows over her face in the biting wind. They step inside.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Didn't the one before have brown hair?"

There's just an instant of pause, and then:

"_Shit_." They're off like twin shots, pounding down the pavement, the harsh tattoo of their footfalls echoing off the street's stout brick buildings.

The store, when they reach it, is locked. Lights out. Empty.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Well, here we are at the end. I suppose we came up on it rather quickly, although I never really intended this to be as long as it ended up being in the first place. ^^ I hope you've enjoyed it, and thank you to those who have left reviews, or who would care to.

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Castiel is flitting around in his mind, sharp and quick as a bat under a streetlamp, and that's damn distracting. He tries to focus as Sam smashes the glass of the door with the butt of his pistol and reaches in to turn the lock and then pushes the door open. The little bell jingles sadly overhead.

Sam leads, hopping over the counter and hurrying back into the racks of plastic-wrapped clothes, stumbling in the darkness. The only light comes from the tiny red lights glowing demonically on the pressing machines, and the green exit sign at the back of the large room. They push their way through the muggy air smelling of laundry soap and humidity, guns drawn, and come up sharply against the back door. It's a fire door, and it's stuck.

Sam gives it a kick while Dean holds down the bar, to no effect. The two of them kicking it together produces no better results; it's blocked from the outside.

"Front door, double around," says Sam, and turns to fight his way back through the suffocating press of freshly laundered clothes and plastic. Dean follows, gun in one hand, shoving aside sleeves and pants legs with the other, and trying all the while to ignore Castiel rolling around heavy as a boulder in his mind. It feels like he's scraping against the edges of his mind with a hundred sharp fingertips, a thousand feathers tipped in lead.

_Dammit, Cas, stop that._

_We must find him. _Castiel's voice contains nothing so human as panic, not even fear, but there is an underlying intensity there which suggests he thinks this is more important than his usual tasks.

_We're working on it. Stop whatever the hell it is you're doing, it's driving me crazy._

_I am not used to remaining idle._ Reproval.

_Get used to it._

They slam out the front door into the cold night air, and pick up into a true run again. Cut around the side of the building into a narrow alleyway, only the faint glow of light pollution and the fainter glow of the stars to light their way. Dean narrowly avoids running full-tilt into a dumpster; ahead of him Sam trips on a hidden step and goes flying, it's only his momentum that allows him to catch himself.

They brake into a full stop by instinct and training at the mouth of the alley, stare out from behind dark corners into the open lane beyond. It's a one-way street, lit only by a single street lamp at the corner some twenty yards away. There is no sign of anyone in the lane. No car, no people, no Jimmy. No banshee.

"_Fuck_." Dean slams the side of his fist into the wall, rage pouring through his veins like molten iron, burning him from the inside. He lets out his breath all at once, is vaguely surprised it doesn't steam. The night air, when he pulls in a fresh lungful, is so cold that he breaks into a coughing fit. "What now," he forces out between hacks. "How long do we have?"

Sam's looking around, although what he's hoping to find Dean can't even begin to guess. "A couple of hours, maybe. Maybe less. They like to play with their victims, to get the most out of them, but the level of fear they crave means –"

"Means they end up killing them quick," finishes Dean, harshly. Crappy timeline, what else is new? "Impatient bitches. Come on. Back to the car."

They run all the way back, taking the larger side road rather than the alley to avoid spraining ankles in the darkness. When they reach it Dean swings himself into the passenger seat without a word, Sam staring for a minute before rounding to slide in behind the wheel. At which point Dean sits back, and closes his eyes.

_Cas? Do you know where he is?_

_I am trying. It is difficult; he is moving. _The angel's tone is short and gruff, distracted.

_Can you track him?_

"Dean?"

Dean waves an irritated hand.

_Yes. To an extent. Open your eyes, and do as I tell you._

"Start the car," he says.

-------------------------------------------------

Castiel's not good at directions. More accurately, he's not good at directions given on the move, for someone driving a car and with a limited knowledge of the area.

"He says 500 yards north-east," relays Dean, as Sam glances left, right and straight at a crossroads.

_65 degrees from your current position_.

"65 degrees from our current position, _thanks so much_," spits out Dean wishing he had a compass, or a protractor, or both and what the hell is this, ninth grade math? "Can't you just give right or left?"

_I am not a GPS system. _Nevertheless he pauses, and the continues tersely,_ Turn left here, then straight 200 yards._

"Turn left here, keep going for 200 yards."

Sam, thankfully, just does what he's told, and if he's freaked out by his brother having conversations with himself he doesn't say anything about it. Hell, this is hardly even _strange_ for them, and no where near bizarre.

_East from here – right at the next junction._

"Turn right."

_Do you know how you will stop her?_

_I'm going with fire, fire and more fire, with a side helping of bullets and iron if that doesn't do the trick. _Dean keeps his eyes on the road, scans the area for Castiel; he can feel that pressure close behind his eyes, the angel watching carefully.

_You will have to act quickly. _And then, in a different tone. _They have stopped. Five and a half miles away at twenty degrees – turn right at the intersection after next._

"Turn right, light after this. Cas says they've stopped."

"Is Jimmy okay?"

_I can't tell. The bond is deep, but not complex._

"He doesn't know. But she's hardly had him any time."

"She must expect us to come looking for him."

"Yeah, but she won't expect us to find him. Not until she dumps him."

Sam concedes this with a shrug. "You want the torch?"

"I'll get Jimmy. You take the torch; watch my back."

"Right."

_And you keep out of the way,_ he adds, closing his eyes briefly. Castiel shifts; whether the gesture is one of acceptance, or irritation, or merely a shrug, Dean can't just at the moment tell.

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The house they end up at is out of town, sequestered away down a narrow gravel road. A little farmhouse, surrounded by muddy fields still covered here and there with thin frosty blankets. A couple of outbuildings catch the car's headlights as they turn into the driveway; judging from their size probably a tool shed and an old barn.

The farmhouse itself is of the typical stock: two stories, white wooden walls, a wide porch. Lacy curtains flash moon-bright in the high beams. There are no lights on in the house, or the out buildings. But there is a car, an old battered station wagon, parked in the muddy driveway. And there are muddy prints on the white steps leading up to the front door. Of course, there's no way to tell how recent they are.

Sam shuts off the engine and slips out to open the trunk while Dean keeps an eye on the house, gun in hand, scanning the darkness. There are no lights out here in the back of beyond, nothing but the faint pinpricks of stars in the cloudy night sky. Now and again the clouds part to reveal a sliver of the crescent moon. It's enough, just barely.

Sam pulls out the propane torch and slips a lighter into his jacket pocket with a metallic click. There's a brief flash of light as he checks a flashlight, and then he hisses, "Done." Dean slides around to take his turn, grabs a knife and a second pistol, then a couple of clips. Finishes off with a flashlight for himself as well, and closes the trunk as gently as he can.

"Where is he?" asks Sam, back to Dean, eyes on the house.

_Cas_, begins Dean. And gets no further, because there is a scream from the house.

No one who's heard a banshee scream ever forgets it, if he's lucky enough to live through it with his ear drums intact. Half the windows in the house shatter, and the Impala shudders under Dean's hands. Dean curses and kneads fingers into his suddenly aching temples, and staggers off towards the house, Sam following. It's like trying to walk through waist-deep water. And then the scream finishes, sound cutting out like a light going off, and they nearly fall forward at the sudden lack of resistance. And begin to run in earnest.

The front door is unlocked, door knob cold and firm under his hand; he pushes it open and steps immediately to the right, Sam following and moving the other way.

There is no light inside, and the pale starlight does nothing to help them here. Turning on the lights will let the thing know they're here, but then again odds are it noticed the car driving up anyway. He looks at Sam, and can hardly make out his brother's form, never mind his expression.

From somewhere nearby comes the sound of shoes running on a wooden floor, and then the slamming of a door. Dean slams his hand against the wall, swiping it over a surface of dusty wallpaper until he finds the light switch and throws it on.

They're in a chintzy front room, the kind of room usually popular with the over 80s, all flowery upholstery and white lace doilies and porcelain statuettes. To the left there's a closed door, to the right an open hallway.

There will be time to joke about it later, about the undead and their god-awful taste, about things that kill for fun filling their houses with music boxes and snow-globes. Sam goes left, he goes right through the hall. The walls are an unadorned white here, and Dean searches the darkness ahead for any sign of movement, any flash of eyes or creak of weight on old floorboards. There is none.

He comes out in an old fashioned kitchen, impeccably clean with the same geriatric taste in decorating; the chairs are covered with knitted antimacassars, the walls feature framed embroidery, the walnut cupboards painted china.

This is weird, even for the undead. Your Grandma Gone Wrong.

There are stairs leading up to the second floor, a door to the other side of the house, and another door leading outside, presumably to the back porch. Dean freezes, and in the darkness ahead of him something creaks.

He's got his gun on the door before it even begins to open, shoulder resting on the wall for support and somewhere to dodge if the thing starts to scream – a blast head-on can dent steel but much more relevantly can also burst ear drums and turn eyeballs to jelly and bone to paste.

The door opens, and before he even steps out Dean recognises his brother by his silhouette, relaxes. Sam walks in with his gun raised in stiff arms, face hard with the effort of maintaining such taut senses. He meets Dean's eyes and shakes his head. Dean nods to the stairs, Sam to the door.

Splitting up's a bad plan, but they're on a damn short time limit. He nods to the stairs again, and Sam to the door.

They split up.

----------------------------------------------------

The stairs creak. They creak like trees in the wind and old men's joints and rusty hinges, and any one of a thousand things that creaks and happens right now to be _giving him the hell away_. There is no way to move silently through old houses, and Dean hates that. Hates it all the more because it has the very real potential to get him killed.

The stairs let out on to a long hall with doors on both sides, two each, and one at the end. They're all closed. Of course. He turns on the light – there's no way the thing doesn't know they're here by now – and steps forward. Takes the left, because that's easier to clear right-handed.

The first door turns out to be a linen closet, full of dusty sheets and knitted coverlets and quaint little quilts, and he rolls his eyes at himself. The second is a large room, completely empty except for a gigantic couch under a dust sheet. He throws it to the ground, but the thing isn't hiding beneath it. Just an ocean of dust motes.

Dean tracks right, now, pushes open the first door and slips in gun first. Another bedroom, this one fully furnished but also dust-sheeted. He throws open the closet, the wardrobe; empty. Checks behind the bed, nothing. Grits his teeth and drops to his knees to throw the dust-sheet up and check beneath the bed, dreading the possibility of shining eyes staring back at him from the darkness there, of the mouth already opened to scream. Nothing.

Heart pounding in his chest – he must be getting old – he moves on to the next room. A study, just a desk and wooden trunk. He checks under the desk; the trunk has books piled on it and can't contain anyone. Not anyone who wasn't put there, anyway – Dean's still got some gruesome memories of their last encounter with a ghoul. Which leaves just the room at the end of the hall.

Flower-shaped lamps casting his shadow ahead of him, he takes a breath, hand on the cold knob, and throws the door open.

A large bedroom, in use, with bed and dresser and book shelves. The plain wooden floor, uncarpeted, is scratched and gouged, and in the poor buttery light shining in from the hallway, the old blood spattered on it looks more like molasses than anything else. Many of the grooves are unmistakably close to the spread of human fingers.

On the bed, the white duvet stained with a rusty red pattern, Jimmy is lying on his back, unmoving. Castiel turns over so sharply Dean nearly loses his balance stepping into the room.

"Jimmy! Jimmy, hey! Wake up!" Dean's at his side shaking him, back to the wall, even before the dizziness has worn off. His shirt has been ripped open, shallow scrapes cut down his chest. His head lolls at Dean's shaking, and his eyes open, slightly unfocused.

"Dean?"

"You okay?"

"Not… completely. It was the laundry lady – she grabbed me – her eyes, God…"

"Where is she? Jimmy, where'd she go?"

For a heart-stopping instant, he imagines hands reaching out to grab him from under the bed, sharp teeth smiling at a cunning trap. Then he remembers the door slamming.

"Dunno. She… she was staring at me, scratching me. Looking at me like …" he shivers, trying to draw in on himself. "I could see it, in her eyes, all the horrible things she'd done – the horrible things she was _going_ to do. How she was going to rip me apart, one piece at a time, laughing –" he's white-faced, and Dean thinks he might toss his cookies soon, but they don't have time for that. He shakes the man again, waits until he's looking at him straight in the eye.

"Jimmy – where did she go? She's not here, where'd she go?"

"Out. Out. I don't know – she was staring at me, and then… maybe she recognised me – recognised Castiel. She screamed – I thought my head was going to explode – and when I looked again she was gone."

"Crap." Dean steps over to the window overlooking the front of the house, looks down. In the light streaming out from the now-lit front room, he can see the black gleam of the Impala. And, closer, the duller sheen of the station wagon. "Well, if she took off, she didn't take the car. Come on."

He helps the man up off the bed, Jimmy staggering slightly as he gets to his feet but managing from there, albeit walking like he's been punched in the gut.

Dean leads them out the room and down the stairs, considering giving Jimmy a gun as he does so, and then deciding firmly against it on the premise that he enjoys not having bullets in his back.

The back door is open slightly, knocking against the frame in the wind rolling in over the flat, icy land. There's no light out here, and after the lit interior Dean can feel his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness. Jimmy walks right into his back.

Dean seriously considers just shoving the man in the Impala's truck, the only remotely safe place he can think of. They should never have taken him along in the first place. Shit, they should never have taken the job at all in the first place.

"Stay close, but don't get between me and it," he hisses gruffly. There's no answer, but he can hear the man shuffling quietly behind him.

He starts forward across the muddy ground heading for the shed, eyes only half-way to adjusted. No point reaching for the flashlight out in the open – if it's here, that'll help it find them long before they find it. Out in the darkness, something creaks. In the back of his mind, Castiel stiffens. Dean pauses, and then creeps forward, smooth and quiet. The grip of his gun is warm and familiar in his hands.

Thin ice breaks under a foot with a sharp crunch. Behind him, Jimmy slips in the frosty mud. Dean catches just a sliver of starlight reflected in a pair of eyes, sees them widen and knows they have seen him.

And then, out of nowhere, Castiel is thundering in his mind, bright and clear and fierce as a waterfall crashing on rocks, _It's her, Dean, it's her – fire! Fire, now!_

He does, and knows it's too late – the thing's already dodged, and he can't see jack squat out here, but he hears it suck in a deep breath and throws himself to the ground, hands over his ears, as it _screams_. It's worse than Castiel, ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times worse. His skull is cracking, is shattering, is imploding, and dear God it hurts, hurts like a thousand spears driving in all at once to grind his bones to dust under their sharp points.

It stops just as he's about to beat his head in with the butt of his own pistol, writhing screaming on the ground in the mud. He doesn't remember falling, didn't notice the damp or the cold, or anything other than the _pain_. Only now, ear drums still reverberating painfully with the scream, does he realise Castiel's been trying to speak to him.

_Dean, she is behind you, behind!_

He swivels, but he can't see anything, and he can't just shoot randomly – Jimmy's out there somewhere too.

_Where? Where, dammit?_

There's a flash of movement, red hair shining in a brief beam of moonlight, and he fires. But there is no wail of pain, just Castiel's voice in his head, whispering. That dry, paperish whisper that Dean recognises as a kind of angel-speak.

He wonders if Castiel is praying.

And then the thing is screaming again, and there is no room inside his shattering head for anything except the pain. His brains are curdling, are turning to liquid, are pressing heavy and viscous against his shattering skull, trying to seep through the cracks.

It stops, eventually. He hardly notices. His ears are full of thunder, ear drums still vibrating, each tiny shiver a world of agony. He can feel hot tears coursing down his face, can feel himself panting but can't hear his breath, his sobs.

_Dean – _Castiel is speaking softly, gently as feathers and sheep fleece and warm beds in winter – _Dean – _but he can't make sense of the words, can't clear the thick muddle of his mind. _DEAN_. There's nothing in his head but the rumble of thunder, waiting for the crack of lightning to split it apart, waiting, and – _Dean Winchester!_

He turns over onto his chest, tries by instinct to push himself to his hands and knees in the frozen mud, fingers numb and icy; he slips and falls heavily. Lies on his side, scrabbling and struggling like a newborn foal.

_Dean_. Strength and warmth holding him in quiet hands, soothing him. He stills.

_Cas? _His thoughts are thick and muggy, hard to fit together into coherence.

_Dean, you need to leave. Take Jimmy and go, run._

_Can't…_

_She will kill you, and him._

_Sam… _That's an instinct, at least as much as survival. More so, so much more.

_Dean, you must go, now. The car is close, _go_!_

_Not without Sam – where …? _Dean stirs, tenses his muscles and pours proper thought into pulling himself up again, out of the thick, frosty mud. He rises slow as a mountain range, but just as inexorably.

_Dean, there's no time. You can't save him._

_Screw you. What do you know? _

_Dean – _

_Goddamn _angel_ who spends more time smiting than saving people. You don't even think of your damn vessel as a _person_. The hell do you know?_ He drags himself up to his knees, tries to find his gun with numb hands, fails.

_I know I do not wish to see either of you killed. _Leave_. Now. _Castiel's voice is closer to an order than a plea, but there is still a hint of bargaining. A request made in the face of the surety of its denial.

_Where's Jimmy?_

_Five steps to your left. Take him and go._

Dean's ears are beginning to work again; he can hear the thing trudging through the mud, looking for them in the dark. Trying to find its prey, and the thing that came between them.

Dean finds him first, by the simple expediency of tripping over him. He will have given himself away with the noise, he knows it. Imagines the thing stalking over to finish them off right this instant. He lays a hand on Jimmy's back, tries to drag him up.

_Cas?_

_Hurry,_ advises the angel tersely, so tense Dean can feel his own spine tingling from the fallout.

_Can you heal him? Heal him now?_

_Dean – _

_We don't have a lot of damn choices. Can you? _A few yards away, the thing's eyes flash, and he recognises it with senses he shouldn't have, knows: evil, abomination, wrong. Maybe it's that same recognition – the thing seeing Castiel behind his eyes – that buys them just a few instants.

_It's too much at once, it could very well – _

_Do it. Do it now._

_Dean – _

_Do it! _snarls Dean, hand contracting over Jimmy's back. _Damn you Castiel, do it!_

It doesn't hurt. No pain at all. Just a great bounding river of warmth, forcing and pounding wide smooth paths as it courses through him, until he's hollow. It's light and strength and goodness, so pure it scorches and burns through every inch of him. Softly, painlessly, _relentlessly_, it cauterises him from the inside out. And then it's gone, newly bored river-beds dry, and it leaves him empty as a broken eggshell.

Dean sinks limply into the cold mud, and stares up into the dark sky with dead eyes. Sees, without watching, the shower of light that rains down on Jimmy even as the man tries to struggle to his feet beside Dean. Hears the quiet, gruff voice without listening: "Goodbye, child."

There is a flash of light. A sigh, and a wet thump. Dean, utterly hollow, mind a gaping void, stares dully up at the sliver of moon above him. After a moment, a pale face leans over him, and then strong arms pull him up out of the cold.

"I told you it was a foolish plan," says Castiel. "I can't imagine why I expected that to stop you." And then, eventually, bright eyes staring not down at the man in his arms but at the corpse lying some yards away and the fields beyond, "Perhaps you are right not to trust me."

The angel sighs, and finally does look down. Raises one hand, and presses two fingers against the bridge of Dean's nose, gentle as snowflakes.

The world turns back on in a burst of light and sound and sensation. Dean starts, and then twists himself away, gasping and wrapping stiff arms around his chest. It's like waking up and finding he's missing half of himself; he feels cold and somehow… tiny, insignificant. Like he's all alone in a huge room, where a minute ago it was full. He blinks, and stares up at the man above him.

"What the hell? Jimmy?"

"No," says Castiel. Dean, on his knees in the mud, narrows his eyes.

"Cas? Are – is he okay?"

"Yes," says Castiel, simply. "He is."

Dean nods once, eyes hard and teeth gritted tight. Then he looks around, hand going to his side for his back-up weapon. "Shit – the thing –"

"Is dead."

"And Sam?" He's on his feet now, slipping and sliding as he tries to catch his balance.

Castiel looks around slowly, stops with his eyes on the shed. "He's in there, unconscious, with three fractured ribs. He'll recover."

"Shit," says Dean again, and begins to shuck through the mud in that direction. Pauses, and turns back. The angel is staring out over the fields, still down on one knee. His coat is spread around him, although when and how he changed his clothes, Dean doesn't know. "Uh, are you –"

"I will be going now. I've been gone too long. But I am … thankful, for your cooperation. Your aid," says the angel, slowly.

"Yeah, well," says Dean, shrugging, eyes narrow. He knows better than to expect Castiel to stick around and play at Happy Families with them. The fact that the angel didn't just take off immediately is pretty shocking on its own. It's probably stupid to have expected any closure on the whole Jimmy/Castiel front – when has he ever gotten closure on anything? – but even so, he was expecting… something. He supposes it's typical of the entire relationship between the angel and Jimmy, that the man ended up shafted again without even a say in it. "If I had had a choice… that poor bastard doesn't deserve it, Cas."

"No," agrees the angel, standing now. "Nevertheless. What must be, is. The world is not a fair place."

"And it's not your job to make it one?"

"No," says the angel again, with more steel this time. "We are fighting a war. My job is to see that we win."

"And if you have to use a tax accountant or two for cannon fodder, that's okay?"

Castiel tilts his head – tilts _Jimmy's_ head – just slightly. A few months ago, it would have been a gesture of puzzlement, of confusion with the bizarre ways of humans. Now, it's nearly a challenge. "Yes, it is. To save billions of his brothers, I will use him as cannon fodder. I will take his family, his world, his life from him, and give him nothing in return but the knowledge that I will use his sacrifice as best I can. And in thousands, millions of years, when no one on this planet knows what a radio is, much less English, I will remember a radio-advertisement salesman from Pontiac, Illinois. It isn't fair. It is simply what must be." The angel's voice is harder than stone, than steel, and it cuts.

"That's a load of crap, Cas." It's the cold making his voice shake. Definitely the cold.

Castiel is staring up at the sky, at the thin blanket of covering separating them from the stars. What it is he's looking at, Dean has no idea. He stands there, looking up, for several moments before speaking. "I realise we don't see eye to eye on many things – or don't seem to," he adds, not looking at Dean at all. "Nevertheless…" He straightens, eyes settling even and bright on Dean, who stiffens without knowing why, "Of all people, Dean, and all things, I wish I could promise you hope. Or, perhaps, simply that you could take it if I did."

Dean blinks at the non-sequitur, sputters slightly. "What – hope's not like a – a puppy. You can't just box it up and give it to people."

"No," says Castiel, in a soft voice with just a hint of grit. "I suppose not. Not to Dean Winchester, at least."

Dean bridles. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It takes trust to hope, Dean."

"And I don't trust you."

Castiel shrugs, coat shifting in the breeze. "I do not blame you." He returns it fast and easy, and it seems to Dean he's been thinking about it.

Dean takes a deep breath, cold tingling in his lungs. "People change, Cas. Sometimes." He turns towards the shed, where Sam's probably catching hypothermia. Behind him, he feels Castiel turn, just a light press of warmth against his shoulders, enough to stop him cold. Castiel's feet away by now, standing real and corporeal in Jimmy's meat suit. Definitely not in his head. Maybe just… lingering, a bit. Like an illness. Yeah, that sounds about right. Something he's glad to be rid of. Absolutely.

"Maybe they do," agrees the angel, and Dean can tell by his voice that he's looking away, maybe up at the sky, or over the fields. Maybe at the dark corpse lying in the mud, and Dean finds himself wondering whether the angel's thinking of her ancestors. He's damn sure he'll never know.

The wind whips at Dean, brief and fierce, and then dies down. He doesn't have to look to know the angel's gone. He's almost forgotten what it's like to be in conversations where the angel doesn't have to stick around. He has a feeling it'll come back pretty quick.

Dean sighs, then curses more on principle than anything else, and heads towards the shed to pick up his brother.

END


End file.
